Broken Glass
by Kelfin
Summary: A character piece that focuses on Forsyth and specifically, his friendship with Chris.
1. A Thousand Panes of Glass

Broken Glass

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This is fan fiction. Neither _Scrapped Princess_ nor any of its characters belongs to me.

* * *

The translation of Cato is by James Marchland. The translation of Petrarch is by A. S. Kline.

The translations of Giraud's poem "Papillons noirs" and Busenello's libretto for Monteverdi's _L'incoronazione di Poppea_ are by me. I apologize for their potential inaccuracy.

Warnings: mild violence, spoilers for the entire series

* * *

_If you should ever want to keep someone safe, you must act as a shield for that person._

* * *

PART ONE: A Thousand Panes of Glass

1.

The light of the setting sun shone through a thousand panes of glass and reflected off the yellow flowers that grew in wild, disorganized clusters on the windowsill. The suite was lit with an almost otherworldly glow.

Forsyth stood with his back to the window, unable to look outside for fear of hurting his eyes. He often spent hours here, staring out at the city of Sauer and at the forests and the mountains beyond. The palace was confining. Other than gazing outside, there wasn't much to do.

Later, he would have the candles in the chandelier lit so he could sit at the table and eat with one of his books for company. Although he'd been home from school for months, the steward had yet to assign him a valet, but he hesitated to ask. For all but the most difficult tasks—like lighting the chandelier—he could fend for himself, and for the rest, he could ask other servants when they weren't busy.

This day would be the same as every day. He would do nothing. No action would be taken. His life disgusted him; he disgusted himself.

A messenger stood at the open door, bowing. Forsyth waved him in.

The news he brought was unsettling. "An intelligence report from the King's Special Forces states that the Scrapped Princess has been confirmed alive. The King requested that Your Highness be made aware for security reasons."

"The Scrapped Princess is alive?" The prince was stunned. "My little sister?" he asked, to clarify.

"Yes, sir," confirmed the man. He set a stack of papers on the table. "The details are in the report."

She was supposed to be dead.

But it was good that she wasn't dead, right? He'd hoped… Well, he'd always questioned his parents' moral decisions in the case.

He might get to meet her.

He thought of her all the time. He wondered about her very time he had a birthday or some other significant milestone of growing up: his installment as crown prince, his first day at the university, the day he glanced in the mirror and realized he looked more like an adult than a child. She had been his imaginary friend when he was little, until his father found out and flatly forbade him to talk about her.

And now, as his sixteenth birthday drew closer, he thought about her, and how she was supposed to destroy the world, and he thought about himself, and how he was oddly sort of a grown-up and sort of not a grown-up, and it was a little overwhelming.

The messenger was looking a little impatient. His expression wasn't very respectful, in fact, but then people never were overly respectful with Forsyth. There was no sense complaining about it, though; it was impossible to gain respect by force. Besides, it really _was_ rude of the prince to make him wait.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," said Forsyth. "That was thoughtless of me. You may go."

The man left, bowing politely, and he was alone again. He turned back to the window and mused, his hands clasped behind his back.

Who was she? What was she like?

Probably, Forsyth supposed, she was very much like him. But then again, maybe she was nothing like him whatsoever. They had resembled each other when they were babies, his mother had said, but obviously, he didn't personally remember. Also, she was supposed to be evil, and he wasn't evil—at least, he didn't think so.

Confirmed alive, the messenger had said. That meant that it was certain. He was glad—there had been fifteen years of disquieting rumors, and it was better to know. He unfolded the paper and skimmed the report. She'd been sighted in the provinces.

They would capture her, undoubtedly, and then he would be allowed to meet her. Surely, she wouldn't be killed before he could at least speak with her. He'd always wondered what it was about her that made her bad. Would she be very strong? Or maybe incredibly smart or persuasive? He wasn't sure what exactly made a girl "the poison that will destroy the world". But the revelation of Grendel had said that she was a curse…

He wondered if she would hate him. _He'd_ hate him, if he were she. Fifteen years of persecution, while a brother sits comfortably in a palace, ignoring her existence… It wasn't true that he ignored her—he thought of her so often—he'd have done anything he could to help her—but there wasn't anything he could do. The army worked for his father, not for him, and the Church of Mauser was its own authority. He was so entirely powerless… He was useless, really, just a pawn.

Sometimes he thought about his own worthlessness and wondered if there had been some sort of blunder. Prophecies were vague, after all, and there had been mistakes before. His mother had said as much to him once. "Forsyth, do you wonder sometimes if _you're_ actually the one who is cursed? It's an interesting thing to think about, isn't it?"

Every now and then she said things that bothered him. "You're so beautiful, you're like a prin_cess_" (when he'd let his hair grow too long)… "Don't listen to your Father, or you'll grow up all mean and stop being my sweet, mild, little boy" (when he'd told her about a series of lectures on theoretical diplomacy)… "I'm so proud of you! You're such a talented artist!" (when he'd excelled at painting _and_ at strategic problem-solving for simulated disasters).

She seemed to have an idea of him in her head that didn't exactly match his real feelings.

Once he'd run to her, very excited about _finally_ being allowed to study methods of mêlée brawling. She gathered him into her arms and said, "No, you don't like fighting. You're much too gentle for things like that." He wanted to protest that he _did_ like it, very much, but he didn't dare contradict her.

In this way, he learned that it was best not to reveal his true feelings of enthusiasm or interest. When he was excited about something, he always played it off as a joke, or acted dreamy, absent-minded, and childish. Then, if his audience laughed at him, he could always pretend that he didn't notice or didn't care enough to be insulted. And if his audience took him seriously, it was safe to reveal a tiny bit of his passion.

Queen Elmyr desperately wanted her daughter back. She had done her best to save the baby, but she still felt guilty. So Forsyth felt sorry for her, and tried not to let it show that he was bothered by her strange behavior. It wouldn't be right to make her feel any worse, especially because his own feelings were so wrong. He didn't respect her the way he ought.

But he knew he was very much like her. Neither of them could say no to a request; both were constantly being trampled upon by the King, his advisors, and other courtiers. It pained Forsyth to watch his mother humbly accept the lot she was given: he wanted to rush to her defense, knocking her attackers left and right. Only… he was cowed by them, too. He always ended up giving in.

He _should_ have been the cursed one. She'd have liked a daughter. And a girl, no doubt, would be much better at dealing with people, and therefore better at being the heir to the kingdom.

His sister must be a strong person, to have survived so long.

He didn't know what kind of person _he_ was. He didn't even know how to go about figuring it out. Was his identity determined by how he acted or by what he thought? Meaning, if he smiled all the time, was he a cheerful person? If he always gave in, did that mean he was laid back? Even if he were actually upset? But… _was_ he upset, if he acted as if he wasn't?

He'd found that when he pretended to feel a certain way, his true emotions usually followed. So maybe he should just always behave as if he felt fine. He tried; he really did. He always smiled. Only sometimes, he thought, it didn't reach his eyes. He hoped no one could tell. He thought maybe as he got older and had more time to practice, he'd get better at it.

He was getting stronger, too. Soon he'd be strong enough to hold himself back. He'd be able to support, with sheer force of will, a barricade of pleasantry and compliance. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't burst out with anger. People wouldn't know if they had hurt him, because it didn't matter, really, if they hurt him at all.

He knew how distressed he felt when he inadvertently hurt someone, and he didn't want anyone else to have to feel like that. He was glad to suffer if it meant that other people wouldn't have to—that's the kind of person he wanted to be. That was the kind of person he was becoming. He was working hard to grow stronger, and someday he'd be strong enough to act completely unselfishly.

Right now, he was a very selfish person. But he didn't _want_ to be selfish. So, if he had selfish feelings, but he stamped them out and acted unselfishly instead, was he a selfish person or an unselfish person?

When the sun set, he decided against having the candles lit and just went to bed. There was no sense in troubling anyone.

It didn't matter that he hadn't seen anyone all day, because there was no one he wanted to see. There was no one who wanted to see _him_.

* * *

2.

He had his back to the same window. The scenery only changed in tiny ways, and he was bored, so the interruption was very welcome indeed. It was with a broad smile that he stood among the bright, waving daffodils and greeted his guests.

"Your Highness Forsyth, a fine day to you," said Baroness Bairach.

"And to you, Baroness," he answered happily, half-turning to face her. His voice pitched up in his enthusiasm. He liked her very much—she had always been kind to him and was an honest friend to his mother.

"This is Christopher, my foster son," she said, gesturing to the dark-haired youth who stood straight-backed a step behind her. He was a head taller than she was, but as the Baroness was very short, it wasn't saying much. Forsyth was much taller than either of them was.

The young man bowed.

"He was raised in the provinces, but I would be delighted if you would offer him your friendship," the Baroness added.

Forsyth quirked his head. What a strange thing to say! He thought the provinces sounded fascinating. "It would be my honor," he said, turning to face the young man fully. "I am pleased to meet you, Christopher."

The situation was awkward, as first meetings always were. Forsyth was grateful for etiquette; even if he felt timid, he could always fall back on the scripted formula. It wasn't a bad thing: whenever possible, he tried to add feeling—to really _mean_ the words when he said them.

"_You_ honor _me_, Highness." Christopher's voice was light but low. He never raised his eyes.

That wouldn't do at all.

"Please," said the prince shyly, "would you call me Forsyth?"

"Yes, sir, Prince Forsyth," the young man answered, lifting his head. He had large brown eyes and an expression that seemed innately open and yet told the observer nothing of his thoughts. It was an attractive face, in the prince's opinion, but a blank one.

Now it was Forsyth's turn to bring up a polite topic of conversation.

It was always good to converse on topics of general interest. Happily, the most obvious conversational subject was a matter of specific interest as well—his thoughts had been on the provinces ever since he'd heard yesterday's news.

"Do you know much about the provinces?" ventured the prince.

"Yes, a little." Christopher gazed at Forsyth unblinkingly.

How strange. Why did he stare like that?

The prince felt extremely self-conscious. He couldn't help but stare back. There was something suspicious here—something was _off_. Choosing his words carefully, he went on. "Tell me, Christopher. Have you heard this rumor? The rumor that says that the Scrapped Princess is still alive?"

The young man blinked in surprise and opened his mouth as if he were about to say something.

"Come now, does an august personage such as yourself truly believe in such nonsense, Prince Forsyth?" interrupted the Baroness.

Forsyth had almost forgotten her presence.

Her words were light, teasing—but he felt uncertain, wondering if he were being mocked. Turning his back on his companions, he walked back to the window and turned his gaze outside. If the Baroness couldn't see his face, she wouldn't learn of the flash of disappointment he'd experienced when she'd stopped Christopher from answering.

He took a deep breath and tried to justify his question. "When the Royal Wizard attended my aunt's funeral, he apparently spotted a blonde girl with blue eyes there. In a little town called Manurhin. My twin sister, who was scrapped right after her birth... She may be alive somewhere in this wide world."

Strands of blond hair hung in his eyes, and he brushed them out of his way. Maybe, if he kept looking, he could see the place where she was.

Anyway, if they were to become "friends", he and Christopher would have to spend time together. Eventually, he'd find out what it was that the Baroness didn't want him to know.

* * *

3.

"Tell me, Chris. If my little sister is still alive, do you suppose that she would look like me?"

Forsyth had decided that, if they were friends, they would be "Chris" and "Forsyth". Chris wasn't catching on very quickly, though. Forsyth smiled sweetly and corrected him every time he spoke too formally.

It was exciting to have his very own friend. It was kind of like a project.

At the question, Chris looked up from his tea in surprise. He blinked at the prince, and the bright light from the windowpanes reflected, sparkling, in his eyes. Lowering his gaze back to his cup, he said quietly, "Yes. I'm sure she would."

Aha! They were getting somewhere.

"The poison that will destroy the world, huh?" Forsyth stared down at the cup he held in his right hand—he'd been taught to eat that way so he wouldn't bump elbows with anyone—and thought nothing of its awkward position halfway between the table and his mouth. "What do you suppose that revelation meant?"

Chris avoided his gaze. "I'm not sure."

He was lying! He had to be.

Forsyth was dying to know what was going on. He looked at his new friend earnestly, the tea forgotten. "If it were learned that my sister were alive, I suppose she'd be targeted for death again."

Chris was emphatically not looking at him.

"I'm sure that our mother is worried, as well," he tried again, and it worked.

Chris looked up. "The queen?"

Forsyth lowered his eyes in a facsimile of bashfulness before glancing up at his friend. "Of course, I haven't seen my mother in quite some time."

The sound of a door opening at the other end of the room made both of them turn in surprise. It was natural, Forsyth thought bitterly, that there'd be an interruption—and just when they were getting somewhere, too…

A gray-haired man in a gaudy robe took a few steps into the room. Behind him, a handful of advisors and bodyguards hovered. Forsyth expected that Chris would have no idea whatsoever of the man's identity—his ashy coloring and angular features did not resemble Forsyth in the slightest.

"Father!" said Forsyth, getting to his feet. Chris immediately stood and made a low bow.

The prince put his hand over his heart and nervously clasped the jewel that hung at his throat. "I'm speaking with a friend at the moment—"

"Who is that?" demanded the king. "Lift your face."

"Yes, sir," Chris answered, complying. He kept a hand over his heart in a confident salute. Forsyth was impressed by his presence of mind. "My name is Christopher Bairach, your majesty."

"Bairach's adopted son, eh?"

After a piercing look, the man turned abruptly and left. Forsyth's cheeks burned.

The young men waited until they heard the door click shut before relaxing. The prince let his arm fall to his side. It was so embarrassing... He couldn't decide if the fact that they were royalty made his family's sordid affairs worse, or if such affairs were already so humiliating that these particular familial circumstances could no longer make any appreciable difference.

"Surprising, isn't it?" He tried to smile. "It's always like that between my father and me."

Chris turned swiftly to face him, his expression, as always, unfathomable.

Forsyth looked at the floor. "My father hates me," he said with an embarrassed little laugh.

Chris turned back to stare at the door for a moment.

* * *

4.

Christopher Bairach was, without a doubt, the most fascinating person he had ever met.

Forsyth had always wondered what it was like to have a friend, having never properly had one, and Chris seemed like a good prospect—the only prospect, actually. At least, the only one Forsyth thought worth pursuing. He had had schoolmates, of course, but they didn't count as friends, not really—they had been deferential to him, but not kind, and he was old enough now to be able to tell the difference between honest affection and flattery.

Christopher Bairach did _not_ flatter.

Forsyth was used to being ignored. He was used to being petted and spoilt. He was used to fear and condescension and awe and disdain. But he was categorically unused to being treated like, well... a normal person. At least, he figured this was probably how normal people treated each other. Really, how would he know?

At any rate, Chris managed to balance apparently sincere politeness with an indifference that lingered just this side of icy. Forsyth was intrigued. Chris was independent and capable and mysterious and reserved and poised—and everything the prince wasn't.

Not that Forsyth wasn't working on it. That is to say, he had been trying hard to be independent and capable and mysterious and reserved and poised, but he wasn't very good at it. He was never given any work to perform or, in fact, allowed to do basic tasks for himself.

At school, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into his studies, reveling in the opportunity to excel at something through his own hard work. When he was not at school, his duties consisted of attending meetings where he never spoke, writing insipid missives to other heads of state, making appearances at public events, and generally serving as a figurehead. He had already exhausted the skills of the palace's dancing and fencing instructors, so his options for occupying his time were limited. When he was not "working", he spent most of his time reading, taking music lessons, and, when a suitable companion (a guard, actually) could be spared, riding or hunting. He already had more education than his father thought necessary, so there were no more tutors, and he was left to his own devices.

He had been lonely.

Occasionally it occurred to Forsyth that he was getting much more out of this arranged friendship than was Chris, and when it did, he made a special effort to hold up his end of the bargain. He made introductions, wrote letters that gave Chris permission to do pretty much whatever he wanted, and found a place Chris could practice martial arts.

He gave Chris a detailed tour of the palace and the fortress beneath it, except for the dungeons, which Chris said he didn't need to see. Forsyth wasn't supposed to go down there, anyway. Actually, there were a lot of places Forsyth wasn't supposed to go, but once he was able to convince General Peters-Stahl that Chris was skilled at self-defense—which was surprisingly easy once Peters-Stahl heard the name "Bairach"—they were allowed to go off by themselves. They managed to get into a lot of places that Forsyth had never been before.

Like Cardinal Hogue's private chambers. And the records room of the intelligence department.

"Will you get in trouble if we're caught in here?" Chris would ask calmly.

"No… Well, probably not," Forsyth would answer. "We won't get caught."

When he was with Chris, he was pretty sure they _wouldn't_ get caught. Chris was just that _awesome_. One time, they'd been poking around in the armory, fiddling with the broadswords, when Chris suddenly threw himself onto Forsyth, knocking him to the floor. Forsyth pushed at his chest and tried to protest, but Chris had already covered his mouth with a forearm. He shook his head meaningfully, and Forsyth stopped struggling.

He lay on the floor, a poleyn jammed uncomfortably into the small of his back. It was an incredibly uncomfortable position, actually, being smashed between armor with pokey, pointy bits and the hard, compact body of an accomplished fighter.

It seemed like ages before he could hear them.

There were voices in the corridor. It was two of Peters-Stahl's aides, doing a routine check of the building. They actually came into the room, and Forsyth's eyes widened with horror, imagining the explaining he'd have to do to get out of _this_ situation. Chris jammed an elbow into his ribs until he stopped squirming.

Of course, the men left after fetching something-or-other for which they'd been searching, and Chris hastily scrambled off him. He got to his feet and reached down to help the prince up.

Forsyth looked at him, wide-eyed with admiration. "You could hear them so far away?"

Chris shrugged. "I was paying attention."

Some afternoons, they'd spar. Chris nearly always won, even though Forsyth was the better swordsman, because he didn't consider himself above what Forsyth called "cheap tricks". Forsyth always beat him at archery.

More often, though, Forsyth would sit and read and while Chris drilled with the battleaxe. It was hard to believe someone as young as Chris could be so good at _anything_. Forsyth thought about it for a long time, trying to decide if he were that talented at any one pursuit, but gave it up in despair after determining that he was only mostly good at many things. He kind of thought he ought to be jealous, but he wasn't, which puzzled him until he shook it off and laughed at himself.

* * *

5.

The most boring thing in the world, Forsyth decided, was sitting for portraits.

He had to do this every year before his birthday. When he was younger, he'd sat with his mother and sometimes his father, and they'd been painted together. By unfortunate coincidence, he'd gained the ability to sit still about the same time his parents started hating each other.

"Your Highness, please," implored the unfortunate man the king had commissioned. "This will take less time if you hold still."

"I'm sorry," Forsyth said, genuinely distraught at having caused trouble. He began to go on with his apology, but the look the artist gave him made him think twice about continuing to move his mouth. He snapped it shut and tried to concentrate on _not moving_.

He loved art, but portraits weren't art. Portraits were obsequious.

He was just thinking that even if he purposely disfigured himself, he would probably still have to go through this, when Chris arrived. Immensely grateful for the interruption, Forsyth dropped his pose and went over to greet his friend.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," Forsyth said under his breath.

"This looks boring." Chris kept his voice similarly low. He handed the prince a stack of books. "These were in the library at the Bairach estate. I'm not sure if you've read them before, but nobody at home wanted them."

It was hard to think of somebody not wanting something as valuable as a book. Forsyth opened the volumes to look at the first few pages. They were all in perfectly good shape; the illumination was beautiful, and the handwriting was extremely neat. They appeared to be painstaking translations of very ancient books of assorted types: _Piers Plowman, Mabinogion, Distichs of Cato, Book of the Civilized Man, Consolation of Philosophy, Diseases of Women, _and_ The Knight in the Panther's Skin_. This was a much more expensive gift than he deserved.

"Nope, I haven't read any of them. Thank you—"

"Don't mention it."

It suddenly occurred to Forsyth that he could maybe get Chris to stay and make the session less tedious. He manufactured an overenthusiastic expression. "Do you want to sit with me for a while?" he said, as if it would be the most exciting activity in the world.

Chris looked very much as though he wanted to say no, but wasn't sure he was allowed to.

"You don't have to," said Forsyth.

"I suppose I can stay for a little while," said Chris slowly. "I'll read to you, if you like."

"Oh, would you?" Forsyth asked with relief. "That would be much less boring than just sitting."

The painter was looking impatient, so he moved back to the artfully draped "set" and resumed his pose. Chris followed, settling himself on a wooden chest just to one side. "What do you want to hear?" he asked.

"Cato," answered the prince promptly. He'd found it referenced in much of what he'd read, and had always wondered what it was like.

"Your Highness, _please_." The painter was growing desperate, so Forsyth acquiesced and tried to put himself back in the proper position.

"I think it's a book of advice," said Chris. "One. If God is a spirit, as the songs tell us, He is to be worshiped above all with a pure mind. Two. Always keep alert, nor be given to sleep; for continuous idleness offers food for vice. Three. I think the first virtue is to be keeping your tongue; he is close to God who knows how to keep quiet properly."

It was very easy to listen to, since the couplets had a certain calming rhythm.

"Nine. When you warn somebody who does not want to be warned, if he is dear to you, do not desist in what you have begun."

This couldn't have been interesting for Chris—it wasn't _terribly_ interesting for Forsyth, although it made the situation much easier to handle, since he now had something to occupy his fidgety mind.

"Thirty-three. Since fickle life turns on uncertain perils, consider each day you struggle through a gain."

The painter sent Chris a look of utter thankfulness.

* * *

6.

There was plenty of room in the palace. It was almost a city in itself, built to house thousands of people: relatives of the king, their entourages, servants, entertainers, and long-term guests—most of them strangers to Forsyth. The palace currently housed about twelve hundred people, but there was room for several hundred more, and Forsyth always found it to be eerily empty. It wasn't that the kingdom's wealth had declined; rather, the kings of the past must have had a taste for the ostentatious.

Nobody would notice one more person, so Forsyth arranged for comfortable quarters so that Chris could stay in the palace when he wished—which was really not very often, since the Baroness had a residence in Sauer, and Chris often left the city to conduct business in Grendel.

Forsyth had formerly thought that he liked being alone, but he was discovering that the truth was that he just hadn't liked being with the particular people he usually dealt with. After having spent time with Chris, days without him were boring.

Days _with_ him were always interesting, if not exciting.

Chris was absolutely the most fascinating person in the entire world. He was so capable and sophisticated and polished… Chris had a genuine tragic past, and his parents, whom he refused to talk about, had evidently died when he was very young—and he'd been unexpectedly adopted by the Baroness Bairach for reasons unknown. Chris crushed attackers with cool disdain. Chris stared people down, reading their every thought. Chris chose words carefully and smoothly delivered subtly sarcastic barbs at the perfect moments.

Chris was his hero.

Forsyth wanted to be exactly like him. He knew he never would be, but he still wanted to be able to see Chris and helplessly adore him. Everything Chris said was the most rational thing in the world; everything Chris suggested was immediately implemented.

Forsyth was terribly afraid that Chris didn't like him equally as much. He absolutely forbade himself from talking to anyone else about Chris, because he knew he couldn't help but sound like an idiot, and he scrutinized Chris for hints of approval or disapproval. He hoped desperately to be approved of.

He liked it—the unsettled feeling that kept him alert, always waiting, hopeful for a word or gesture that might plunge him into uncontrollable happiness. There was a chance that his hopes would be dashed, too—which is what made the whole situation exciting. He thought, sometimes, that the chances of his being disliked were very small, but then sometimes he thought they were very great.

He found that a glance or a word could occupy him for days, which was a good thing because sometimes he went days without seeing Chris, which was an agony. It was a bad thing, too—this dwelling on specific gestures—because it interfered with his duties.

For the first time since he was very young, there was something more interesting than the philosophical tomes he stole covertly from the library. Instead of staying up all night secretly pouring over ancient—and, to most people, irrelevant—treatises on music and architecture, he lay awake replaying scenes from their last meeting, editing and augmenting them. He had a difficult time paying attention to his father's counselors; he found himself smiling and trotting off obediently to do as instructed and then realizing that he hadn't any idea whatsoever of what he'd been told to do. This, he decided, was because Chris's conversation was much more interesting than, for example, the Cardinal's was.

He had to hide the fact that the two of them spent so much time together. There were particular passages that had to be taken and meeting places that had to be kept secret. He took care never to allow anyone to know that Chris visited him in the evenings or at night.

It often occurred to him that all of this sneaking around was beneath him, that he was acting as devious as a schoolgirl or, worse yet, a courtier. But a glance or a word in the wrong place might cause a lot of trouble for Chris; being thought of as the favorite of the prince would make him a target of intrigue. Forsyth didn't think it would be right to bring something like that down on Chris's already burdened shoulders. Besides, how could he put someone he so admired in danger?

This constant state of nervousness, this wound-up, ever-ready tension, began to take its toll. He found himself daydreaming to excess, easily distractible, and more irritable than usual. Upon reflection, he decided that it was due to his lack of sleep and sudden disinterest in those things that had formerly brought him pleasure. But it was so much _fun_—never knowing when Chris would appear, and so always having to be ready, having a reason to make sure that he looked okay and had prepared interesting conversational topics.

He realized that, for all the time he spent looking out the window, he'd never before had anything to watch _for_, and this new sensation of expectation—of hope—as he looked out both terrified and enraptured him, sending him flying to the window every few minutes "just in case".

He felt so entirely in Chris's debt—for the books, for the thoughtfulness, and for the companionship—that he found himself looking for ways to make it up to him. But it was hard to find things that he could do for Chris, since Chris was better than he was at everything… well, at least better at everything worth doing.

They were wasting time one afternoon when Forsyth found there _was_ something he could do.

"I got a letter from a girl," said Chris placidly.

"Oh?" Forsyth looked up, immediately interested. Conversation with Chris was easy, and it was safe to be animated and excited about things when it was just the two of them.

"Yeah," said Chris. "The Baroness showed it to everyone she works with."

"Really?!" The prince was appalled. "That's so—"

"She's right. I shouldn't allow myself to be distracted."

"I suppose you've a point," said Forsyth. "Who's the girl? A pretty girl?"

"Just a girl. A girl I met while… traveling. She's nice. We got along well. We have a lot in common. She wrote to say thank you—for lending her my cloak, I think."

"Are you going to write back?"

Chris shrugged.

Forsyth feigned horror. "You're _not_ going to write back?" Nodding decisively, he added, "You must."

"But…" Chris looked genuinely at a loss. "What would I say? 'You're welcome'?"

Forsyth laughed. "I suppose you'll say all the things you usually write in letters."

"I don't usually write letters," said Chris warily. "I more often write… messages."

Sighing with mock impatience, Forsyth held out his hand. "Give me her letter."

Chris looked at him blankly. "Why?"

"I'll write your answer, if you like. Give me her letter."

"You expect me to carry it with me? Not likely."

Forsyth went to his writing desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. "What's her name?"

"Winia Chester."

Forsyth dashed a few lines in a loopy, ornate script. "Okay. Where did you meet?"

Chris paused, then said carefully, "At an inn."

"How uninspiring. Where did you lend her your cloak?"

"In a valley."

"Chris…" He was being so _recalcitrant_. "What was the weather like?"

"I have no idea. I think there was a full moon, maybe?"

"Right." Forsyth brightened. "Girls love that stuff. I can get a whole paragraph out of that."

Chris shifted uneasily. "You're not making it too poetic?"

"Um… not… really…"

Probably not, anyway.

Forsyth folded the letter and handed it to Chris, beaming. "Just recopy it and make sure you answer any questions she asked directly."

"Can't I just give her this one?" asked Chris with such an expression of mortification that Forsyth's heart swelled up with pity. It was an honor to be trusted with Chris's honest feelings.

"Sorry… She'd know. A person like you would never have handwriting like mine."

There was a beat as Forsyth realized how insulting that sounded.

"I'm so sorry," he hastened to add. "I only meant that a person with your personality probably has neat, tiny, crisp handwriting. Mine's round and I press too hard with the pen—it obviously couldn't have been written by your hand."

"You've studied handwriting?"

Forsyth shrugged. "I haven't very much to do here."

* * *

7.

They took tea together in the afternoon and dined together whenever Forsyth didn't have to make an appearance somewhere else. Forsyth learned to take care of his personal affairs before noon because Chris was always busy in the mornings—and he was always evasive when Forsyth asked what he was doing.

"Business," he'd say. Or "errands". Or "something for the Baroness". He never gave a straight answer to a direct question.

Forsyth had started to make wild speculations on the nature of Chris's business. There had to be _some_ reason the Baroness had introduced them. It had occurred to him that it could be an assassination attempt, but it was pretty obvious that wasn't what was going on—nobody could be that good at acting, and it would never have dragged on so long. Chris couldn't be there to spy on Forsyth, because Forsyth was considered completely unimportant by the intelligence branch of the military; by the time he was told anything, it was practically common knowledge, anyway. Clearly, Chris was getting something else out of it.

Forsyth was pretty sure it was access to the palace library. Chris had been very careful not to ask about the library directly, but Forsyth was getting to know him well enough to recognize the telltale signs of a well-organized conversation. Regardless, he was more than happy to show Chris the library; it was one of his favorite places—quiet and good smelling and, most of all, extensive.

Chris had acted slightly too uninterested in the library. It probably would have fooled anybody else, but Forsyth had been watching for it.

So it _was_ the library that was important.

The other thing that was disconcerting about Chris was his odd behavior whenever the topic of the Scrapped Princess was brought up. His normally inscrutable face would, just for an instant, show a glimmer of hesitation. Forsyth got the feeling that he knew something, but wasn't allowed to talk about it, and since the subject plainly made his friend uncomfortable, the prince avoided it. He was dying to know, though, and it was really hard not to talk about it. He congratulated himself on his strength of character every time he did _not_ bring up his sister—though he still talked about her too often, because he thought about her _all the time_.

Of course, it didn't take Forsyth very long to put two and two together. Chris was probably doing some kind of research on the Scrapped Princess, especially considering that some of the records from the temple at Grendel were kept at the palace. Nobody had access to the library except palace residents. That explained the trips to Grendel, now that he thought about it.

Something like that would be just like Baroness Bairach, too! Forsyth couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out sooner. She'd been supporting his mother ever since he could remember; he wouldn't be surprised if, ultimately, all the information they gathered was going straight to the queen. Well, on second thought, the Baroness knew the queen too well to trust her with secrets. It was probably her own initiative driving the project.

Once he'd figured all this out, everything made much more sense. He really, really wanted to know what information Chris had found, and it took all he had to wait for the right moment. But the moment didn't come, and there was an insufferable number of teas and dinners and sparring sessions during which Forsyth desperately wanted to just blurt out the question.

It wasn't fair, what had been done to his sister… and it had been done so ineffectively, too. Forsyth steeled his mind and tried to imagine what it would actually take to kill a baby, and then what it would take to kill a young girl. Not much, actually; it was pathetic that she was still alive. This forced him to wonder: had the military actually _tried_ to kill her? The more he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe they hadn't. It occurred to him that, the older she got, the more difficult it would be to attack her. It also occurred to him that, should the king want him dead, he'd be much easier to kill than she would. He'd have no way to defend himself against the entire army.

But the prophecy had clearly said that it was the _girl_ who would curse the world. Hadn't it? Well… Forsyth was sure that's what he'd been told, but how many people were actually around to hear a prophecy? Only a few Church officials, and that made Forsyth suspicious. The prince was a fervent believer in the Church's teachings, but that didn't mean he couldn't see that Cardinal Hogue was an extremely unpleasant person. He knew that the Cardinal would do anything to end a curse, even if it meant creating an elaborate deception. Neither the Cardinal nor the king nor General Peters-Stahl harbored any goodwill toward the prince, although the Cardinal pretended to, and this was scary, since he was completely at their mercy.

But why? Why would they wait so long? Why wouldn't they have just killed him when he was born? For that matter, why were they waiting now? The meager intelligence reports he received stated that the military had ceased its assassination attempts and was tailing her. If his sister really were alive, shouldn't they be trying to kill her? None of it made any sense.

All this only made him more eager to ask Chris what he had found. If there were any ambiguity in the prophecy, surely Chris would know.

He eventually decided that the right moment to ask would never come. So one morning, he dashed through his paperwork, keeping one eye on the window to see if Chris had come. When he saw that Chris had arrived, he hurriedly finished up the last bit of work—it still took him twenty minutes—and rang for a servant to deliver each dispatch to its proper location.

He checked his reflection to make sure that he looked acceptable, then scampered off to the library. He took a roundabout route to make sure he wasn't caught—he wasn't technically supposed to be walking around alone, and he didn't know how he'd explain himself to anyone who stumbled across him.

The palace library was lonely and dusty and dark and multi-chambered and complicated, and Forsyth had to look through rooms and rooms before he found the one that held the records of Grendel's prophecies. He didn't think he'd been in this particular room ever before—it seemed like _nobody_ had been in it for years. Most of the books in here were unintelligible to him, anyway. They were in old, lost languages, or printed with a script nobody knew how to read. Some of them didn't even look like somebody had written them by hand, but more like they had been printed from teeny-tiny woodcuts. Forsyth was in awe of any civilization with craftsmen who had the time and skill to carve such perfect little letters.

Books were precious. In them was stored the secrets of the ancients. Someday, he'd figure out how to read them. Then he'd be able to build buildings as tall as the ruins he'd seen. He'd be able to put those incomprehensible machines back together and make them work.

Looking through the space between two books that leaned away from each other, Forsyth finally found the person for whom he'd been searching. Chris was standing in the darkness between two shelves, scanning through one of the more slender volumes. If that were the book Chris wanted, he must have had to spend days and days searching for it. Forsyth couldn't imagine how anybody could find anything specific in here: there was no order whatsoever; everything was completely disorganized.

He peeked around the corner of the aisle, as Chris, obviously disappointed, closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. The prince walked forward, feeling shy but trying very hard to seem open and interested. He tried to keep an alert posture and a friendly expression on his face. "Is your research coming along well?" he asked.

Although he could not have been expecting the intrusion, Chris turned and bowed smoothly, covering his heart with his hand. He lowered his gaze respectfully. "Prince Forsyth…"

"It's not easy, is it?" asked the prince calmly. "All records dealing with the Scrapped Princess have been destroyed."

He watched Chris's large brown eyes as he spoke. They opened, but didn't turn up to meet his face until he had finished speaking. Chris looked surprised. Forsyth grinned to himself.

"Hey, Chris," said Forsyth, stepping closer. "Who are you, _really_?"

He didn't really expect Chris to answer him truthfully, given his penchant for evading direct lines of questioning, but after a barely perceptible pause, he said, "I'm a member of the Obstinate Arrows Special Forces unit."

"Is that so? That explains a lot."

The Obstinate Arrows, huh? It certainly made sense. That was one of the military's top units, the one Baroness Bairach commanded. It fit with what he knew of Chris's past and skills—they occasionally took in and trained talented children who had no other place to go. Wow… special forces… Chris immediately became a hundred thousand times more amazing.

Forsyth pulled a book from a shelf and idly flipped the pages, not looking at it. "I have a favor to ask," he said, glancing up at Chris hopefully.

"A favor?" Chris's face, as always, was unreadable.

"I don't know why you're investigating my sister, but would you let me help you?"

Chris looked down. "I'm sorry, but that's—"

Forsyth nearly panicked. "If that's out of the question," he hurried to say, "would you at least tell me what you've turned up?"

He closed the book, looking at Chris more earnestly. "It's possible that I was the one who was abandoned. I have a duty to find out if that's the case."

And he also cared very much about his sister, but he somehow didn't think that would be an effective argument. This, on the other hand, was something that had been distressing him for a while. He hoped he could make Chris understand.

Chris kept his gaze averted, a pained expression on his face. "Um… Highness…"

"Not Highness. It's Forsyth."

Chris started, and Forsyth laughed a little, smiling kindly. "Please."

His friend blinked at him a moment, hesitating. "Prince Forsyth, it's… not exactly that…"

"It's not an order," said Forsyth reassuringly. "You don't have to tell me, if you're going to get in trouble. I just… I would _like_ you to tell me, if you can."

Chris glanced around the room surreptitiously.

"Nobody ever comes in here," said Forsyth.

"Still… Follow me."

Chris led Forsyth through a maze of shelves, finally stopping at one of the castle's inner walls. Pulling away heavy drapery, he revealed an alcove.

"Nobody comes here," he explained. "I've been using it to store my notes."

"Since obviously you can't take anything out of the library," finished Forsyth. "How did you know it was here?"

He walked into the niche and curled up on one of the marble benches that lined the walls. It was discomfiting to know that there were places he'd never seen in a building in which he'd lived for more than fifteen years.

"I notice things." Chris let the heavy cloth fall back. It was too dark to read now, and it smelled musty. "There's one behind each of the curtains."

"I thought they were just drapes," said Forsyth. "How do you know no one else comes here?"

"First of all, nobody comes into the _library_. Secondly, this place is really dirty. They'd leave footprints. And I wouldn't sit there. You'll get covered in dust."

"What was in here before?" Forsyth asked, moving to a spot on the floor that was, bafflingly, slightly cleaner than the bench.

"Books," said Chris, sitting gracefully down next to him. He nodded at the codices carefully stacked against the opposite wall.

"Ah," said Forsyth. "So… tell me about the Scrapped Princess."

Chris spoke very low. "This is on the understanding that you will say nothing about this."

Forsyth nodded breathlessly.

"Well… I _am_ investigating the Scrapped Princess."

"…And?"

"And I can't tell you anything else."

"What?!" shrieked Forsyth. Lowering his voice, he started over. "I mean, _what_? You brought me all the way here to tell me that you can't tell me anything?"

Seeing the closed-off look on Chris's face, he backpedaled. "I mean, not that you have to tell me anything because what you're doing is probably really important and it's probably a major security risk and I don't want you to feel bad about it so—" He let his voice fade away.

Chris looked vaguely amused.

"Listen," he said. "You're safe. You aren't the one who was abandoned."

"How do you know?" asked Forsyth. "Have you found the records for the prophecy?"

"It's clear that your sister is the one the Church and the Army are after."

"So, no, you haven't found the records."

"No. Not yet."

There was silence as the two boys looked at each other in the gloom.

"You worry too much, Highness."

"Forsyth," he corrected.

"You worry too much, Prince Forsyth. Nobody is trying to kill you. And if they were, you have people to protect you." Chris spoke too firmly to be contradicted.

If Chris thought so, then it was true. He would stop worrying about it. But then what on earth was the military doing, constantly going back and forth about the Scrapped Princess? Forsyth frowned. "So then my sister…"

"You're concerned about her?"

There was another pause. It was such an odd situation—it was dark, a little cold, and altogether exciting and adventurous. Forsyth moved closer to Chris, who leaned away uncomfortably, and lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper.

"Um, Chris… What is she like?"

"Her name is Pacifica Casull."

"Where is she now?"

"She's believed to be in Giat, under the protection of the royal family there. Her older brother and sister are with her."

"And what are they like?"

"The sister is practical and collected, keeps a cool head in a crisis. The brother, Shannon—he's hot-tempered, but an excellent swordsman. Better than you."

"Oh. Well… I'm glad she has somebody to protect her."

"Yeah."

"So… What does she look like?"

Chris reflected. "Like you."

"How, specifically?"

"Um… Blonde hair, blue eyes… your faces are shaped the same way. She's shorter than you are, though. And louder." One corner of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. "She's kind of a brat."

Forsyth laughed warmly. "Really?"

"Yeah. Much less accommodating than you. Assertive."

Forsyth wasn't sure how to respond. Had he just been insulted?

"So you've met her," he said, at length.

"Yes."

"Is she… Is she happy?"

Chris gave a sardonic little laugh. "When we talked to Queen Elmyr, she said the same—"

"You've seen my mother?!" Forsyth's eyes widened in surprise.

"Yeah."

"When?!" He leaned in earnestly.

Evidently uncomfortable, Chris moved back a few more inches. Forsyth was confused. It didn't seem as though Chris disliked him, but he always avoided touching him. Did he think it would be improper?

"Not too long ago. In her tower."

"Oh." Forsyth wasn't allowed to go there. The king was very angry with Queen Elmyr right now—his attitude toward her vacillated, but it had grown steadily worse since Forsyth turned fourteen.

"Did she… did she look well?" he ventured, scooting a little closer to Chris.

Chris shrugged. "Sure."

Forsyth felt his face fall and supposed that he must have had a particularly pitiful expression on his face, because Chris sighed and said, "She asked the Baroness a lot of questions about you."

"Oh, yeah?"

Chris nodded. "How long has it been since you've seen her?"

Forsyth thought for a moment. "About fourteen months, I think." Gathering his courage, he closed his eyes and let his head drop onto Chris's shoulder.

Chris stiffened for a second in surprise, then relaxed warily. He twisted his neck to look down at Forsyth. "That's a long time."

"Yeah. Last time I saw her she gave me earrings. Can you believe it? She thinks I'm a child."

Chris sounded as though he was trying not to smile. "Not the ones you're wearing?"

"Yeah."

"They _are_ kind of girly."

"Mmm, do you think so? Shall I not wear them?"

"Does it matter what I think?"

"Yeah. Kind of. I mean, you know so much better than I do what people think is weird."

"Well… Most guys don't wear earrings."

"Really? Should I take them off?"

Chris shook his head. "They're a gift from your mother."

Forsyth immediately felt like an idiot. How could he be so insensitive as to talk about his mother to somebody who barely _had_ a mother? He had a moment of guilt-stricken panic before he realized that Chris hadn't reacted _at all_. So maybe it wasn't such a big deal.

"You must write to her often," said Chris.

"Yeah," said Forsyth. "Every week or so."

He was trying to decide whether he should move. This position wasn't very comfortable, and he was starting to get a cramp in his neck. He didn't really want to break contact, and it would be really awkward to pull away. But if he stayed like this much longer, it would be equally awkward.

Chris solved the problem by moving first, sliding back so that he sat against the wall. Forsyth rolled over onto his stomach and propped his head up in his hands, figuring that he was already so dirty that a little more dust couldn't make a difference. Chris put out his hand hesitantly and rested it on the prince's hair.

Forsyth looked up at him. His heart was pounding.

"Do you remember that girl who wrote me that letter?" Chris asked, laughing uncomfortably. "She keeps writing to me. I think she may have… misinterpreted the letter you—_we_—wrote. It's almost like she's… _smitten_."

Forsyth felt a little tiny bit guilty, but mostly dismayed. It would serve him right if he had gotten himself in trouble. "Well…" he said. "Do _you_ like _her_?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "No. Not that much, anyway. I liked her more before she got a crush on me."

Forsyth felt relieved and uneasy at once. It was nice to know that she didn't mean anything to Chris. (Wait! For shame! He had no right to feel so possessive.) Anyway… now that he knew she wasn't a threat, he felt kind of sorry for her. He certainly understood why she thought Chris was amazing. He wouldn't want to have Chris say something like that about _him_.

He had a horrible thought that maybe Chris harbored unutterable disdain for him and was only hanging around so that he could make fun of him later. _I liked him more before he started worshipping me…_

"Be… be kind to her, okay, Chris?" Forsyth said nervously. "Just until she gets over it."

Chris looked down at him. "You think that's the best thing to do?"

"Being kind is always the best thing to do," Forsyth smiled.

"You know that you're always going to be taken advantage of, right?"

"I don't care," said Forsyth. "I'd rather be taken advantage of by one person than thought cold by a hundred people."

"Are you calling me cold?"

"Um…"

Chris made a wry face. "I'm glad you can trust people."

"Why don't _you_ trust people?"

Chris looked at him for a moment. "I trust people who have proved themselves to be trustworthy," he said carefully. "I find it… interesting… that you haven't yet found yourself a victim of your own unwariness. It must be nice to be so sheltered."

"I'm not sheltered," protested Forsyth, although, upon further thought, he decided that he probably was.

Chris raised an eyebrow in response and said nothing.

There was a comfortable silence during which Forsyth bumped his hand against Chris's knee and Chris clumsily stroked Forsyth's hair.

"Highness… I mean, Prince Forsyth…"

"What?" Forsyth's voice was muffled by his arm and the stone floor.

"I should thank you. For offering me your friendship. The Baroness appreciates it very much."

Forsyth beamed. "Please don't mention it. It must be tiresome for you, with only grown-ups to talk to at work."

Chris shrugged. "My inferiors _are_ considerably older than I am. But I talk to the Baroness, as well."

"But it must be difficult to be free with her, since she is your superior… and your mother, too, now."

"I suppose that everyone is either a superior or an inferior. It would be difficult to avoid speaking to people who aren't exactly equal to me in rank."

"I wish," said Forsyth eagerly, "that you wouldn't think of me as your superior—"

"I know," said Chris dryly. "But wishing doesn't change what is."


	2. Closely Guarded

PART TWO: Closely Guarded

8.

Forsyth was pacing in his sitting room, waiting for news. The top military brass had had an important meeting with the king, so the castle was full of people who didn't belong there, and Forsyth's door was closely guarded. One would think the Crown Prince would be invited to the meeting, but he had not been. The king flew into a rage practically every time he saw his son now, so such things were out of the question.

In order to find out what was going on, he would have to wait for the General's report, which would certainly be biased and full of holes. Then he'd have to wait even longer for Chris to get the news from the Baroness and relay it to him.

He turned sharply at the knock on the door, adjusted his posture to look confident and serene, and called for whomever it was to enter.

General Peters-Stahl opened the door and strode inside, assessing the room with a glance. He immediately took up a position in the room that made Forsyth feel intimidated.

"What can I do for you, General?" asked Forsyth pleasantly. He loathed General Peters-Stahl, but it was morally inexcusable to hate people, and it would without a doubt hurt the man's feelings if he knew that Forsyth hated him—so it was vital that he pretended to like Peters-Stahl until he could force himself actually to change his feelings.

"I've come to inform you of the council's decision. In light of Giat's recent offensive actions, we have decided to retaliate."

"Recent offensive actions?" Forsyth hadn't heard of any such thing.

"Yes," said Peters-Stahl decisively.

"But… what did they do? I mean," Forsyth hesitated, "doesn't military action seem like a rather extreme response?"

The General looked down at the prince with a sneer. "There are those, Your Highness, who would not flinch from extreme action."

Forsyth flushed.

"Thank you," he managed. "You may go."

Peters-Stahl turned sharply and left, snapping the door closed with a flick of his powerful hand.

The prince stalked to the window, glaring at the little yellow blossoms that waved cheerfully at him. He had enjoyed watching over them, making sure that they were watered and turned every so often so that their stalks grew straight. He _liked_ taking care of things.

He _disliked_ Peters-Stahl. It was hard to like somebody who did awful things without feeling the tiniest bit of remorse.

And he wished everybody would stop insinuating that he was a baby.

It was wrong, wrong, wrong to kill innocent people. Forsyth knew—and Peters-Stahl knew—and _everybody_ knew—that the people who suffered in war were the common people, the people who couldn't defend themselves, the people who didn't have a voice in the decisions that were made.

Somebody had to defend these people. And as their prince, Forsyth knew, it was his duty to protect them. It was his duty to _care_ for them. It was more than his duty—it was his right.

He felt a swell of pride as he thought this. His determination to serve his people, he was certain, showed that he was growing up. He didn't have to enjoy hurting people to be a man. The kind of man that Forsyth wanted to be wasn't a man like Peters-Stahl—it was a man who didn't need to feel defensive, a man who was strong enough to be kind.

Forsyth scowled. He couldn't _wait_ until he took the throne. There was going to be a major reorganization of the military. The General was an unscrupulous man who hungered for power; any time he chose, he could stage a coup, and there'd be no one to stop him. The only reason he hadn't yet, Forsyth figured, was that he hardly needed to. The king was in the palm of his hand already.

A good king would be at the front lines, and an honorable prince would be at his side.

* * *

9.

It was late by the time Chris arrived.

Forsyth was ready for bed, actually, and had wrapped himself in a blanket on the floor by his fireplace. He had spread out copies of poetry books he'd found in the library: Göthe, Petrarch, Homer, Shakespeare. He was trying to figure them out. He had begun to teach himself English a couple of years ago, but the Shakespeare book was very old, and it didn't quite make sense. The other books were English translations from a later period, and he wasn't having quite as much trouble with them.

The ancient world was intriguing. Its cultures were exotic, but its people were uncomfortably normal.

He was getting involved in the story of Achilles and Patroclus when there was a soft knock on his door. Scrambling to his feet, he draped the blanket around his shoulders. He hadn't expected anyone this late, and he was bare-chested. "Come in," he called.

Chris had slipped in the door and shut it before Forsyth made it halfway across the room.

"Ginungagap," he said.

"What?" asked Forsyth.

"Ginungagap," Chris said, more loudly. "It's an offensive spell."

Forsyth looked at him blankly.

"A _strategic grade _offensive spell. They'll use it on a Giat ship that carries the Scrapped Princess."

Finally, a sentence that made sense. Forsyth paled. "Doesn't that violate international law?"

"There will be war with Giat," said Chris. "I'm sure."

Forsyth sank onto the floor tiredly, gesturing for Chris to do the same. "Peters-Stahl?"

Chris nodded and sat cross-legged, facing the prince. "According to the Baroness, the king said next to nothing during the meeting. It was almost entirely run by the General."

Forsyth pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to push out the headache.

"The Baroness speculated that… the king…"

"That the king is a puppet of Peters-Stahl and Hogue?" Forsyth laughed bitterly. "Of course he is."

"Well, _that_… and that he might be losing his mind."

Forsyth let his head fall forward onto Chris's chest. "Everything's falling to pieces, isn't it? The end of the world really _is_ coming."

Chris went rigid for an instant, but then he seemed to realize that a response was in order. He patted the prince's back inelegantly.

Forsyth sat up immediately. Physical contact was uncomfortably awkward.

"If it's the end of the world," said Chris after some thought, "there's nothing we can do. We have to act as though what we do could matter."

"I know," said Forsyth. "I'll… I'll talk to Father about it in the morning and see what can be done."

Chris nodded his approval. With his left hand, he flipped through the open books Forsyth had left on the floor.

"What have you been reading?"

"Oh… Poetry, mostly."

Chris pulled one of the books closer. He frowned. "Is this English?"

"Yeah."

"You can read this?"

"Yeah." Forsyth brightened. "Would you like to hear some?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Okay," said Forsyth, taking the book. He looked up at Chris earnestly. "It's hard to translate as I go, but I'll try my best."

Taking a deep breath, he began, "Then Love might grant me such confidence that I'd reveal to you my sufferings, the years lived through, and the days and hours…" He sent a quick look at Chris under his eyelashes. "And if time is opposed to true desire, it does not mean no food would nourish my grief: I might draw some from slow sighs…"

He trailed off. He could feel Chris looking at him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked uncertainly.

Chris was definitely staring. "Nothing. You're… good at that."

Forsyth glanced down bashfully, opening his mouth to begin the usual protestations that followed compliments. "Oh, no, please—"

"Who taught you to read English?"

"Nobody, really." Forsyth blushed. "I was bored one summer, so I figured I'd look it over. It's not that different from our language, really; it's very instinctive. Actually"—he knew he was launching into a lecture, but it was so interesting—"it's amazing how little the language has changed, really, considering it's been five thousand years. It's almost like there's some kind of outside force keeping things from developing. Anyway, anybody could have figured it out."

"That's not true. You shouldn't downplay it."

"Oh… Okay."

Chris nodded thoughtfully. "Princess Senes can read English."

"Senes lur Giat?"

"She's using it to pilot a battleship from the Genesis Wars."

"What?!" Forsyth almost clapped his hands with delight, but caught himself in time and lowered them to his lap. He didn't want to act completely childlike in front of a person he was trying to impress.

"Senes lur Giat has a Genesis ship?! That's… that's…! We have to go see it!"

Chris looked at Forsyth as if he wanted to call him an idiot but didn't think it would be proper. "You'll see it sooner than you think. Princess Senes just sent her brother's entire navy to the bottom of the ocean, and she's on her way to Sauer with the Scrapped Princess on board."

"WHAT?!" Forsyth leapt to his feet in indignation. "Why does nobody tell me anything? How long has this been known? I am always the last person to learn of things like this!"

All at once, he felt ridiculous, standing half-naked and barefoot with his hands on his hips and his hair tousled and an exaggerated expression of righteous anger. He sat back down.

"Apparently that's what the General meant by Giat's 'recent offensive actions'?" he asked meekly. Everything made so much more sense when he had the relevant information.

"Evidently." Chris lay back on the rug, folding his arms under his head. "What are you going to say to your father tomorrow?"

Forsyth sighed. "I have no idea."

He flopped down to lie on his stomach next to Chris, kicking his feet in the air, and the soft legs of his pajama pants slid down to his knees. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned in so that their heads were close together, a mess of blue and blond and brown that reflected as a pleasant splatter of color in the window.

"Stay and help me figure out what to say." He pouted impishly.

Chris almost smiled. "Sure."

* * *

10.

The drapes to the throne room were drawn, letting only a little light filter in around their edges. Forsyth, who preferred rooms to be well lit and free of grime, felt uncomfortable. He had to tilt his head back to look up at his father, who sat on the center throne of the three that stood on the dais. The physical discomfort of tilting his head up added to the prince's nervousness.

It was rare for them to be alone together. Forsyth had been aware for a long time that his father had never particularly liked him, but lately, the king's criticisms of his behavior had become… well, in Forsyth's opinion, less and less just. He didn't really object to being punished for lateness and messiness and other things that his somewhat overzealous father stressed—and he was proud that he had mostly eradicated that sort of unprofessionalism from his behavior. It seemed now, however, as if the king reacted irrationally to every innocent thing his son said or did.

He wanted to please his father, but eventually he had learned that he would never be the person his father wanted him to be. Years of experience had taught him that the best thing was just to avoid interaction with the king. Ordinarily, he would never initiate a confrontation, preferring to allow his own wishes to go unnoticed if it meant preserving the uneasy peace. But this was about _other_ people, so it was okay… no, it was _essential_… to speak up.

"Father!" He drew a deep breath and tried to keep his voice bold and assertive. "Please reconsider what you're doing! We mustn't throw away the lives of our precious soldiers in a needless war!"

He'd practiced this speech. It had sounded powerful and dramatic in his chamber, but now… it didn't, somehow. Too passionate, perhaps? He thought glumly that to anyone listening, he'd sound like a child campaigning against perceived social evil without really understanding the complexities of the situation.

"Silence!" commanded the king.

Forsyth started. He looked up at his father, unable to keep the disappointment off his face. Oh, no, he was going to cry. He could feel his eyes trembling a little as he fought to keep the tears back.

"Don't look at us with those eyes," snapped the king. "You have your mother's eyes. She disobeyed our command and allowed our daughter to escape!"

The prince opened his mouth to protest the vast injustice of that statement, but closed it again when he realized that any attempt at speech might result in him actually weeping in his father's presence.

The old man turned his body in fear, shrinking back from his son as far as he could in the large throne. "Your sister almost certainly has the same eyes, as well."

Forsyth gave up.

Chris was waiting for him when he pushed open the heavy doors and came out. He'd been staring off the balcony into the fog that enveloped the city, and he turned abruptly to face the prince.

Forsyth let the door fall completely closed before saying in a low voice, "He wouldn't listen to me, just as I expected." He kept his eyes fixed ahead, unable to look anyone in the eye.

"Is that so," said Chris.

Forsyth stared off into the distance that was the city's skyline. "Father is going to throw countless subjects into a war just so he can kill the Scrapped Princess. So he can kill my sister… What in the world is he thinking?"

Chris looked away, evidently unwilling to answer.

"Even if," the prince continued, "it is in the people's best interest for the Scrapped Princess to die, must we _kill them_ to _kill her_? That doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Why don't they just send an assassin after her or something?"

Chris had a strange look on his face. "I think you underestimate Shannon Casull," he said in a low voice. "And this is best discussed elsewhere."

"Yes, yes, you're right…" They began the walk back to Forsyth's suite.

"Do you think he's insane?" Chris asked.

"You mean Father?" Forsyth thought about it. "I don't know," he said. "It doesn't matter. He's just a coward. And selfish."

His father was _wrong_. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And not wrong in a "misunderstanding" way, or in an "I disagree with him, but I guess he's the one in charge" way. Wrong in a _fundamental_ way.

It was scary.

It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever realized that his parents could be wrong. He'd had arguments with them, of course, but not since he was very young. They all ended the same way: Forsyth's parents would "talk" to him about what he'd done—the king would yell ("That's completely idiotic!"), the queen would query ("Now, what could you have done instead?")—and Forsyth would try to fast-talk his way out of trouble even though he knew he was wrong. When he couldn't stand the stress any more, he'd get hysterical and start to cry, and then his father would call him a baby, but at least then, they usually stopped "talking". Even now, when one of his parents said they wanted to "talk" to him about something, he panicked. His parents were always in charge, always the winners, and always the ones whose final decision mattered in the end.

But… His father had let paranoia make him delusional, and his mother lived in terror, doing whatever she could to please a man who was basically impossible to please. He felt sorry for them, but he didn't want to be anything like them. They were both weak, weaker even than he was. At least Forsyth _knew_ he was afraid and tried not to let it affect his judgment.

It felt disloyal to think such thoughts, but it was exhilarating, too. His head and heart literally felt lighter, almost as if he had gained an intractable power simply by coming to this realization. The door to his suite seemed as if it weighed less, and he swung it open with too much force and sailed into the room with strides that took very little effort.

"It's okay, you know," he said to Chris. "I didn't really expect him to listen to me."

Chris nodded.

Forsyth looked out the window. "What's going to happen, do you think? What kind of damage can a spell like that do?"

Chris shrugged. "Nobody knows. It's been so long since one was used. It's supposed to be powerful enough to decide a war on its own. It might even kill a thousand people."

The prince shuddered. "It's like in this book I was reading… A long time ago, there was a war. They figured out how to get up really high somehow—I'm not really sure, maybe there was a mountain—and they dropped this sort of cannonball-thing on the city and killed forty thousand people at once. And then, because of the magic they used, thousands more people got sick. The war was over then, but the whole country had been destroyed."

"It's not possible. For one thing, how could there be forty thousand people in one city?"

"I think things were different then."

"There's no way there could have been a weapon that could kill forty thousand people. You must have been reading a folktale or a myth."

He knew he hadn't been, but he didn't feel like arguing, and it would take too much trouble to try to explain the concept of _encyclopedia_. "Maybe," he said. "Giat will retaliate with a similar spell, won't they?"

"Yep."

"What can we do to stop it?"

"Nothing."

Forsyth looked at Chris, unable to believe it. "Do you really think so? What do you mean?"

"Just stay out of the General's way and do whatever you can to avoid displeasing the king. Then you'll be all right." Chris turned his gaze out the window. "It would suck if… If something happened to you."

"Yes, I imagine it would," murmured the prince.

"When you're king, you'll be able to do whatever you want."

"If there's anything left to be king of. Besides, the people won't accept me as king if they know I stood by and allowed them to suffer when I could have stopped it."

"It doesn't matter. You'd be the one with power." Chris leaned back carelessly on one elbow. "Assuming you weren't the puppet of some shadow ruler," he added under his breath.

"But it's the people who hold up the government! They're the ones who really have power. It's a basic principle of Mar—oh, never mind."

He'd been reading about philosophies of governance lately. He thought his father and grandfather probably qualified as Absolutists.

Chris looked at him very seriously. "You can't change anything, so stay out of the way. You're not the one responsible for what's going to happen."

"That's completely false," argued Forsyth. "What I do is always my choice and always my fault. I want to take responsibility for myself."

"Prince Forsyth—"

The prince sighed. "Let's not argue. I'm too tired."

It was hard work to think of compelling arguments, and disagreeing with Chris was awful. He wanted so desperately to please Chris… Normally, he'd just find something in his friend's statements that he could agree with. (Forsyth was very good at agreeing with people and telling them what they wanted to hear. That was why, he had decided, people thought he was "nice".) However, on such a vital topic, he didn't feel right about being disloyal to his true feelings. The dilemma was uncomfortable to the point of making him feel torn.

Chris nodded, leaning against the window frame with his arms crossed across his chest. "It's not up to us," he said quietly.

"Yeah, I know," said Forsyth, pressing his forehead against the cool panes of glass.

* * *

11.

Soon after the rain began to fall, there had been a strange sound, low and rumbling. Then the wave came. It washed away much of the city's coastal front, and several ships were lost.

Ginungagap, Forsyth supposed. He was afraid to make inquiries regarding the death count.

He had asked Cardinal Hogue if he might be allowed to go out into the city to assist in the relief effort, but the Cardinal had assured him that his presence would cause more trouble than it was worth. Extra soldiers would have to be taken from their work to help guard him, and there might be excitement in the street, should the prince be sighted.

Forsyth spent hours watching the work from his window, but nothing changed very quickly. The drizzling rain was relentless. It was unusually cold for this time of year, and the freezing rain made the work extremely uncomfortable.

He felt utterly helpless.

Brutally, he snapped one of the yellow blossoms off at the base of its stem and held it up to the mottled gray light. Tiny veins could be seen in its leaves when the light shone through. People had veins, too, but nobody was sure what they were for or why they existed. Perhaps people and flowers were the same on the inside.

There was much to understand, and nobody who could understand it.

It was after dark when Chris arrived, although that meant little, considering that thick clouds blocked the light of the setting sun. It was after dinner, though, and Forsyth, who had been bored, was already undressed for bed. He'd blown out all of the candles and extinguished his fire to make it easier to see outside, but the drizzle made it impossible to tell what was going on, and he'd long since given up.

Now he sat in an armchair, curled up with his back to the door. There was a quilt wrapped around him; he had been shivering. Whoever built the palace had thought more about showing delicate strength of the arches than he had about proper insulation.

Knocking was a mere formality by this time; Chris pushed the door open without waiting to be told to enter.

"How many have died?" asked Forsyth without turning around.

"No one knows yet," said Chris.

"And did they achieve their objective?"

"No."

The prince rose and moved toward his friend. "They didn't hit the ship?"

"The ship went down, but the Scrapped Princess disappeared. Her body hasn't been found."

Forsyth looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether to say the obvious.

"You're thinking it was a waste," said Chris.

"Rather." Forsyth flopped gracelessly down on a sofa, flinging one arm over his face.

Chris, poised as ever, knelt on the floor next to him.

"I wish," said Forsyth, his voice muffled by his arm, "that I could keep my people safe."

There was a pause. Chris seemed to be thinking about something.

"The Baroness said something to me today," he began slowly. "She said, 'If you should ever want to keep someone safe, you must act as a shield for that person.'"

"I can't," Forsyth wailed. "I can't do anything! I can't even protect myself," he added miserably.

Chris shrugged. "I wasn't suggesting that you…" He trailed off, tilting his head to one side. "Are you crying?"

"No," the prince choked out.

Chris poked tentatively at Forsyth's shoulder with one finger. "Hey… It'll be okay. I'll make sure of it."

He sighed. "It's like the Baroness was talking about. You're one of those people who can still believe in freedom and equality. You shouldn't have to be disillusioned."

"What?" sniffled Forsyth, moving his arm to look at Chris with one eye.

Chris looked very serious. "I want to protect people like that."

Forsyth was _almost_ completely certain that he knew what Chris meant. But not certain enough to risk anything he considered precious. And so he did nothing except look at his friend, _almost_ secure in the knowledge that they understood one another.

Of course, he couldn't be sure that this was so—he might be wrong—he might be misinterpreting the situation completely. Something awful might happen at any moment.

But he _thought_, at least with a reasonable amount of confidence, that, well… that Chris was fond of him and enjoyed spending time with him and felt no small amount of loyalty to him. In fact, Forsyth suspected that Chris thought very highly of him indeed, which humbled him to no end. How wonderful, he marveled, to be respected by the very person he so much admired! Surely, this was a rare coincidence, to be found only in the work of the poets and in the lives of a few blessed individuals.

He knew he didn't deserve such happiness, not only because of his personal sins, but also because of the sins of his family and the terrible destiny laid upon him and his sister. It was more than likely that it would all be taken from him. Yes, the best thing would be to keep silent.

He would try his best to smile and act casually, but he was very much afraid that his transparent nature had already made his feelings quite obvious.

He probably ought to give up seeing Chris entirely, considering the general mess this affair was making of his life, but his whole self protested against such action so vehemently that he couldn't bring himself to contemplate easing out of the friendship. He felt selfish and weak and un-self-controlled and guilty.

"You're okay now, right?" asked Chris, jerking Forsyth out of abstraction.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, fine, thanks." He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He knew he was probably just messing it up, but it felt sort of invigorating, so he did it anyway.

Chris moved to the fireplace and struck steel against flint, trying to catch a flame in the tinder.

"I can have someone else do that," said Forsyth.

Chris shrugged.

"I know it's cold," continued the prince, "but I put it out because it's easier to see out the window if there are no lights in here. Not that I mind if it's lit again; please go ahead."

He frowned, realizing that Chris had just come in from the rain. "Are you cold?"

Chris glanced over his shoulder. "A little," he said, measuring his words. "But you shouldn't sit around in the cold air, either, you know."

"I'm fine; I never get sick," said Forsyth cheerfully. He moved over to the hearth and dropped his quilt over Chris's shoulders. "At least let me do that. I should have offered before—I'm sorry."

Chris quirked an eyebrow ironically and handed him the flint. "You know how, right?"

"Sure. I've seen it done hundreds of times."

Chris held out his hand. "Prince Forsyth…"

The prince obediently returned the flint.

"How is it possible," asked Chris conversationally, "to be fifteen years old and not know how to start a fire?"

Forsyth chewed the corner of his lip, thinking. "As far as I can remember, it's never come up. There's just always been a fire without my having to wonder where it came from. It seems a useful thing to learn, though… only there's never been time to learn that sort of thing."

Chris made an ambiguous sound. "So what do you study at the university, then?"

"Grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy. Oh, and philosophy, and theology."

"Those things are useful, too," said Chris kindly.

"In a year or so, I'll have to choose between law and medicine, but I'm not very excited about it. I think my father would prefer I study law, but I'd rather just continue with theology."

His friend grunted, clearly unsurprised.

"It sounds silly," Forsyth went on, "but the words of Lord Mauser are so important. I want to study them and learn them all by heart. I don't believe that one can properly interpret them without context, and I want to serve my country as best I can. Look at the Grendel prophecies, for example—some of them were wrong, but maybe we were just thinking about them incorrectly." He sighed blissfully. "I love reading religious texts. Could there be anything more vital to daily existence?"

"Have you ever thought about how strange the name Mauser is?" asked Chris, avoiding the question altogether. "It seems like God would have a more… primal name. Ancient. Intrinsic."

"Like an _Ur_-name," breathed Forsyth.

"Sure," said Chris.

"You're right… It is dismally mundane," Forsyth mused. "Thank you for making the fire," he added.

"You want me to teach you, don't you?"

Forsyth nodded. "Please."

* * *

12.

Sunshine streamed through the glass panes of Forsyth's sitting room. Chris had seemed so busy lately; Forsyth was humbled and flattered to find that he continued to make a point of keeping him informed of the military's latest actions. The visits were short, though, and to the point, and Forsyth hadn't even bothered to invite Chris to sit down this time. Instead, Chris stood stiffly by the door, while Forsyth faced away from him. They spoke in low voices.

"A search for the Scrapped Princess?" Forsyth repeated, confused. "So, you're saying that she is here in Sauer."

"No." Chris was concise, but, as always, respectful. "Just that there is a strong possibility. However, the military's top brass have been leaning towards going to war ever since Ginungagap was used. I've heard that they want to use her as a trump card."

Forsyth closed his eyes. "I'm so pathetic. If only I had more power…"

Chris looked up. "Please don't blame yourself," he said earnestly. "It's not set in stone that we're going to go to war."

Forsyth stared out the window, knowing that Chris was lying. He was grateful for the attempt at comfort, but his fears were growing steadily stronger.

"Don't be so concerned about me," he murmured. "Let me feel guilty for what's my fault."

"Prince Forsyth," said Chris. "Forgive me, but that's… unwise."

"Maybe…" Forsyth answered absently, not wanting to discuss it. "Who exactly will be conducting the search for the Scrapped Princess?" Chris had been very vague about the subject.

His friend paused. "The Obstinate Arrows," he said finally.

"You?" Forsyth wasn't sure what to say. "You're going to kill her?"

"We've been ordered to capture her."

"Ordered by Peters-Stahl?"

"Who else?"

The boys looked at each other.

"She'll be bait then," said Forsyth. "Or, no, she'll be a bargaining chip."

Chris nodded. "General Peters-Stahl is putting pressure on—"

Forsyth sighed.

"I have to go," said Chris.

* * *

13.

"You said _what_?" Forsyth couldn't believe what he had just heard.

"I said, 'Do I have something on my face?'," answered Chris with a self-satisfied smirk.

"And he just _let you_? He didn't _do anything_?"

Chris shrugged disdainfully. "He knows better. He needs the Obstinate Arrows."

"You mean he needs _you_."

"That too."

Forsyth was always amazed by Chris's _guts_. Peters-Stahl was so intimidating, and yet Chris could get away with acting so aloof and disdainful. Forsyth would never dare to talk back like that.

Chris had been in an unusually peevish mood today, which Forsyth attributed to the recent capture of the Scrapped Princess. Chris hadn't been the one to catch her, personally, but he had overseen her imprisonment. He had assured Forsyth that her cell was one of the most comfortable in the entire dungeon, which somehow wasn't very comforting.

"My birthday is in less than a week," the prince ventured, trying to find a safe approach to the subject that most concerned him.

"I know." Chris had gotten up from the table and was pacing.

"Do you think the world will really end?" asked Forsyth.

Chris shrugged.

"Well… Do you think I might see her?"

"Who?" Chris raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "The Scrapped Princess?"

Forsyth set his teacup down impatiently. "Of course!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because she's heavily guarded, and you're not allowed in the dungeons."

"They let _you_ into the dungeons," Forsyth pointed out, rather perversely.

Chris gave him a _look_.

"What is she like?" said Forsyth, trying another tactic. "Is she smart? What kind of forces is she commanding?"

Chris laughed humorlessly. "She's a young girl, with no popular support. She's not a threat." He stalked over to the window. "She hasn't done anything. There isn't even any proof that she's dangerous—prophecies have been wrong before. It's just… it's just…"

"Immoral? Unfair?"

Chris sighed. "It seems that she suffered a head injury when her ship went down. She appears to be feigning amnesia and says she has no idea who she is. I can verify that she's the Scrapped Princess, but the General doesn't care whether she is or she isn't. He just wants someone to use for a trade in his negotiations."

Forsyth frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Why would Giat care about the Scrapped Princess? They won't offer anything in exchange for her."

"I'm not sure that it's Giat he's bargaining with."

Forsyth tilted his head to one side. "What? Who else is there?"

Chris scowled.

Absent-mindedly, Forsyth pushed crumbled-up bits of pastry around his plate with his fork.

Chris stared out the window at the darkness outside, evidently lost in thought. After a while, he said, "We were told that if we did not capture her within the designated time limit, the Obstinate Arrows would be disbanded."

The prince nodded slowly. The General had dismissed Baroness Bairach from her position as leader of the Special Forces, just because she had opposed his warmongering. Chris seemed to think that Major Sturm, their new leader, was a decent person, but still… he couldn't possibly feel very secure about his position after his own mother had been discharged.

"No doubt Peters-Stahl is eager to eliminate all groups with the potential to stand against him," said Forsyth. "Still, it isn't fair. You don't feel right about harming her… He shouldn't have asked you to choose between—"

"It doesn't matter," Chris interrupted. "We did as we were told to do; that's all."

Forsyth got up from the table and went to Chris, stopping awkwardly a pace away. "I wish," he said, "that my father would allow me to see her."

Chris studied his face. "Prince Forsyth, you must know that it's not your father who is making those decisions."

"But…" He sighed, gazing over Chris's head to the gloom of the mountain forests outside. "I want to do what's right. I mean… I want what's right to be done."

Chris grimaced. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Nothing makes sense."

"Yeah."

For what seemed like a long time, they stood, not looking at each other.

"Listen, Prince Forsyth… I have to go. We have… things to do."

"Like what?"

"I can't really tell you."

"Oh… okay."

"Promise me you won't try to get into the dungeon." Chris had a very serious expression. "General Peters-Stahl will not hesitate to kill you if he gets the smallest excuse."

Forsyth made a face. "I promise."

"Good." Chris had one hand on the doorknob when he hesitated. Turning, he said, "Queen Elmyr… has also been arrested."

And then he was gone.

* * *

14.

There were only three days until his birthday. As time went on, he had been left alone more and more often, and there was nothing to do but stare out the window at the sunny city—so it had been a surprise when there was a knock at his door.

Now, he stood with his back to his room and to its other inhabitants.

"Highness. By order of His Majesty, I am to take you to the holy city." Cardinal Hogue spoke nervously. Four of his inferiors flanked him, almost as if they were lending him strength. It was so like the Cardinal, thought Forsyth, to be afraid to confront one helpless boy without a posse of sycophants.

Keeping his voice light, he asked, "Father's orders?"

"The capital is in turmoil, so he believes this to be in Your Highness's best interest."

As if the king were capable of thinking so rationally.

The prince turned halfway around. "I've heard that the Scrapped Princess has been captured," he said carefully, staring at the carpet. "Would it be possible for me to at least see my sister before I leave?"

He would have asked to see his mother, too, but he wasn't supposed to know she was imprisoned.

"As to that…"

Of course. It was impossible.

Forsyth turned to face the old man, smiling regretfully. "I suppose it's too much to ask," he said.

He hadn't expected to be allowed to see her. He never got what he wanted, but he couldn't allow himself to feel bitter about it. It would be selfish of him to cause trouble for anyone.

Cardinal Hogue smiled with relief. Forsyth couldn't help feeling sorry for him—the man really hadbeen terrified that Forsyth would insist. "When do we leave?" he asked cheerfully.

The Cardinal shifted his weight anxiously. "Well… you see… I will not be travelling with you, Your Highness."

Forsyth sent a prayer of thanks to heaven and immediately felt guilty for it.

"In fact," continued the Cardinal, "I will be leaving within the hour. Your Highness will leave this afternoon, accompanied by my aide, Berkens."

One of the priests bowed. Forsyth looked him over; he was a tall, dark-haired man, not too old, probably not very high-ranking. It was quite like the Cardinal to make a quick escape and leave the more unpleasant duties to his underlings.

The prince bowed. "I am pleased to meet you."

"You will depart at three o' clock," said the Cardinal. "By order of the King, you are not to leave your room before then."

Forsyth nodded. "I understand."


	3. Many High Towers

PART THREE: Many High Towers

15.

The holy city of Grendel was impressive—startling, really—with its many high towers. Forsyth could see them from his bedroom window at home on any clear day, but up close, they were even more awe-inspiring. They were very ancient structures—no one knew how to build anything that high nowadays.

The coach rounded the top of the hill, and they began their descent into the city. Forsyth looked out at the buildings between the narrow slats of the window.

"You can see the Great Temple from here," said his companion. Forsyth obediently moved his eyes to the left.

"The damn thing's too…" Berkens stopped himself. "I mean, this humble servant of Mauser has always found it too ostentatious."

All of a sudden, the architecture seemed much less interesting than Berkens himself. Forsyth felt the corners of his mouth turn up involuntarily. "You seem rather open-minded for a priest of Mauser."

Berkens looked out of the window, speaking casually. "Please feel free to be frank and call me too worldly, Highness." He turned to the prince and grinned. "I know better than anybody that I'm not cut out for the priesthood."

He laughed, and it was a clear and healthy sound. Forsyth allowed himself a tiny smile.

As his eyes wandered out the window again, he gasped. "Stop the coach," he said softly.

Berkens followed his gaze and ordered the coachman to stop.

Two young children and an old man were stopped by the side of the road. They had obviously been walking some distance, carrying their belongings with them. The old man knelt on the ground, clutching his heart, while the children, a girl and a boy, bent over him anxiously.

Forsyth slipped from the coach and hurried to them. "Is something the matter?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes…" said the old man, looking up. "I was walking, and my chest suddenly began to…" He faltered.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Forsyth. The man really looked as if he were in pain. "Is this where it hurts?" he asked, gently touching a spot on the man's chest with his right hand while his left arm went behind the man's back for support.

Berkens walked over to them and also knelt. "Here, mister. Drink this. You'll feel better soon." He held out a cup. Forsyth hadn't known Berkens was a physician, but he supposed that priests had to learn something during all that time they spent in training.

"Thank you so much, Father," said the old man, taking the cup and drinking.

"Are you traveling with these children?" asked Forsyth politely. He felt awkward, seeing them stand there, unacknowledged.

"Yes. My son and his wife died in that huge tidal wave a while ago. We have no other relatives to turn to, so I thought of throwing ourselves upon Lord Mauser's mercy. So we came to Grendel."

Forsyth looked at the children, who stared back at him with dull and fearful expressions.

"Huge tidal wave?" he asked. He desperately hoped that the old man wasn't talking about the one that had just washed over Sauer—the one that he should have stopped… But what other tidal wave could there have possibly been?

It was Berkens who answered. "He must mean the one triggered by Ginungagap. They say that the wave killed over a hundred people."

Forsyth was shocked. He hadn't heard any such statistic. The Cardinal had made the death count out to be very low. The prince kept his arm around the old man, comfortingly, and blinked hard to keep from crying with frustration.

"Prince Forsyth?" Berkens looked concerned.

Forsyth noticed the improper use of his name, but it seemed irrelevant. There were far more important things to be upset about—like injustice and his helplessness to prevent it. He could feel himself shaking with rage at his impotence. "It is always the helpless commoners who suffer," he said in a very low voice.

It was too much. He bowed his head, sobbing in earnest now. "I'm sorry… Please forgive me…"

The old man looked at Berkens, confused. Forsyth supposed that he had no idea of what his prince looked like, and hadn't recognized him. (Well, no wonder, considering that he wasn't allowed to go anywhere.) He probably seemed like the spoiled little kid of some nobleman, sent to safety because his parents coddled him. He sighed—it was basically the truth. He really ought to be in Sauer, doing what he could to help.

He rubbed the tears out of his eyes. "It's okay. I'm okay."

Berkens helped the old man to his feet.

"We can give you a lift to the city," said Forsyth. There wasn't really room for all five of them, but Forsyth could ride—his horse was tethered to the coach already; all he'd have to do was saddle her.

"No… That's all right," said the old man. "We've imposed upon you enough already."

"Are you sure?" asked Forsyth, ignoring the warning look from Berkens. Such an old man could hardly be a threat.

"Yes, thank you," the man answered. "We don't mind walking."

Berkens fussed around the carriage and the horses for a while, until they could see the old man and the children well on their way, and Forsyth was grateful for the attention to his unspoken wishes. The old man was having an easier time walking and seemed to feel much better.

"What was it that you gave him?" asked the prince.

"Just something to ease the pain. It'll start hurting again soon. But by then, they should have reached the city—it's not too far from here. Although it's getting dark now; we'll be lucky to arrive before nightfall."

"I'm glad they won't have to go much farther. When they reach the temple, the priests will be able to help them."

Berkens did not answer, just raised a skeptical eyebrow. "We'd better be going now, Your Highness."

"It's okay if you call me Forsyth." Berkens seemed like a decent enough person.

The prince had one foot on the steps of the coach when they heard the sound. Whirling around, they looked back toward Sauer, where the explosion had come from.

Dust and debris filled the sky, making the city indistinct, but high above, in the sky, floated the lone figure of a giant. From his eye or maybe his mouth came a beam of light; when the light fell on a building, it burst into bits.

It was unlike anything Forsyth had even imagined. How could something so powerful exist?

"The capital!" cried Forsyth, immediately thinking of the books, the buildings, and the people that were precious to him. His mother and sister were there. _Chris_ was there.

Crashes boomed across the valleys to echo in the city streets. He knew that by morning, the winds would have carried to Grendel the dust cloud, as well.

Forsyth threw the saddle on his mare before Berkens realized what he was doing. But as he tightened the stirrups, the priest grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him away. "Prince Forsyth!"

"Let me go!" shouted the prince angrily. "If I don't go back, the people of the capital will—"

"What will you do there?!" roared Berkens, just as stubbornly. "If you die, who's going to rebuild the capital?!"

Forsyth froze, staring at his horse. Berkens's firm hands on his shoulders felt heavy and calming, but still… The thought of the terror that must have been felt at that moment in Sauer struck him deep. It was almost as if the thought itself were causing real pain.

"Who knows what's going on there right now?" Berkens continued. "If we were there, it's as likely we'd be dead as not."

"You expect me to be happy that I've escaped, when everyone else is running for his life?" asked Forsyth bitterly. "I don't think that—"

"I expect you to wait until you're able to do something about it. Do you honestly think you can take on that… that… that _thing_ in the sky?"

"What is it?" the prince asked.

"I don't know," said Berkens. "But I'll bet anything you like that it's related to this fiasco with the Scrapped Princess."

"But…" Forsyth was at a loss. "It's not supposed to happen yet. She's not supposed to be dangerous yet. It's not our birthday for another three days."

"Oh, _that's_ not the little lady," said Berkens. "She's tinier than that."

Forsyth jerked his head up, surprised. Was he the only person in the world that hadn't made her acquaintance?

"I just meant," said Berkens, "that there are some pretty powerful forces that want to get a hold of her—and they're getting more desperate, the more time goes by."

"Ah…" Forsyth was too frustrated for anything more than noncommittal responses. "I see."

"Let's get going," said Berkens. "At least for now, Grendel seems safe."

_I'm not a child_, Forsyth wanted to say. _I don't need to be kept safe_.

Instead, he tried halfheartedly to smile. All the way down into the city, they sat in weary silence. Where had the world gone wrong? People were going to suffer, and there was nothing to be done about it. The day after tomorrow, thousands of people might die. Hundreds were dying _now_. And the only way to stop it was for an innocent person to die. No, it was worse, because it wasn't just any innocent person—it was his twin sister. Even if they'd never met, he felt a certain responsibility toward her.

Was it more wrong to deliberately kill one innocent person, or do allow thousands of innocents to suffer—to do a small bit of evil intentionally, or to stand back and permit a great amount of evil to occur?

Why were both choices wrong? There had to be a right choice. There _had_ to be.

* * *

16.

The next day's sun was bright, but the smoke and the lights in the heavens gave the sky an odd color. He stood wide-eyed on the balcony, watching the battle in the air. Another fighter had joined the first. They were large—larger than most of the buildings he'd seen—and they were suspended in the air, blocking out the sunlight as it streamed down over the city of Grendel.

"What in the world are those things?" he wondered aloud.

"Surely a wise man like Your Highness already knows the answer," said a voice from behind him.

The prince half-turned, keeping his hands on the railing. He wasn't inexperienced enough not to recognize the blatant flattery—he didn't consider himself particularly wise, and he was too young for most people to think of him as a man, per se. However, as usual, he let it go by without comment. "Cardinal Hogue..."

"Within those lights," said the Cardinal, "are the absolute beings whom the Church of Mauser calls angels, the messengers of God."

Forsyth turned back toward the battle in awe. He hadn't imagined angels as being so... well... destructive. They were beautiful, yes—like big butterflies with fascinating, glowing eyes—but they were frightening, too.

"There is no longer any point in hiding it from you," continued the man behind him, "for they have appeared openly before humanity."

For a moment, Forsyth was irritated. Did the Cardinal think he was a child? A child who had to be protected by _hiding informatio__n_?

He blocked the feeling from gaining hold and renewed his customary expression of concerned ingenuousness.

"Those are the messengers of God?" he asked, staring at the lights. He watched as buildings blew into pieces and imagined the screams that accompanied the explosions. It was terrifying. Forsyth knew that fear could be read in his stance and his expressions, but it wasn't worth trying to hide it—something so deeply engrained in his character was impossible to conceal.

"If only we ourselves had killed the Scrapped Princess sooner..." The Cardinal let his voice trail off.

Forsyth turned back to face him. He kept his voice steady, although he wanted to snap at the man. Or maybe start to cry. He didn't know which. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," said the Cardinal, "that if it were not for Your Highness's sister, the Scrapped Princess, this tragedy would not have happened."

"Oh," said Forsyth blankly.

It suddenly occurred to him that maybe the reason everyone treated him as if he were a child was that he so often pretended to be oblivious. He couldn't think of a better way to avoid conflict; acting as though he didn't realize he was being offended or taken advantage generally worked best… but…

He really was sick of being thought stupid and naïve.

"I'm tired," he said softly. "Please… I'd like to be left alone."

The Cardinal bowed and left, and Forsyth remained on the balcony. It was the best part of this place, since there wasn't much furniture, and the room he had been given was dark and vaguely forbidding. He had been told that wasn't allowed out, because it was so dangerous, and everyone was so busy—he didn't want to ask anyone to stop and bring him updates, although he was constantly wondering. The balcony was a window to what was going on. He could see the destruction for himself.

The wind was blowing, ruffling his hair, which suddenly, inexplicably, pleased him—and then of course he felt guilty about enjoying anything. The breeze here was cool and playful, unlike the air that he knew must be in the valley, stifling and heavy. He could see for a long way from the tower, but the land beneath him, especially that which sloped downward to the coast, was covered by a haze of smoke and debris. It was hard to see the capital city, and the prince found himself hungry for news.

"Prince Forsyth, I've brought your meal." It was Berkens.

He turned, keeping one hand on the balcony rail, intending to return his gaze to the scene of devastation. "Oh," he said, uninterested in the food. "Thank you. How are things in the capital?"

Berkens, still inside the prince's room, set the tray down on the small desk that stood beneath the mirror. The glow of a single candle flickered over it, and Forsyth himself bizarrely intrigued by the play of light.

"I've heard that reconstruction work has started," said Berkens, and the prince sighed with relief. No one would be rebuilding unless the worst of the fighting was over. "They're repairing the castle, too," continued the priest, "but... well... His Majesty is still missing."

Forsyth looked away and down, a little sadly. "Is that so." He supposed that Berkens meant that his father was dead.

He wondered if there'd be a power struggle regarding the rights of succession. He hoped not—he felt much too exhausted and distracted to concentrate on something like that. It was surreal, but he didn't feel angry or upset as much as sad and empty. How could it be that it was so easy to cry when strangers suffered, and then, when he felt his own pain, he just went hollow and lonely and blank? It was an aching loneliness, when what he wanted was screaming and raging and sobbing, out of control.

"And my sister?" he asked, closing his eyes. "The Scrapped Princess?"

Berkens sounded regretful. "Apparently, they're pursuing her."

"I see..." The prince opened his eyes, the ache shining out of them, despite his efforts. "So, she's still alive."

Which meant that there would be even more destruction.

"How did she get out of the palace?" he asked, thinking. "Even if she'd gotten out of the dungeon, the entire armed forces should have been…"

Berkens shrugged. "According to the Cardinal's intelligence report, she and her guardian, Shannon Casull, escaped through the waterways that run under the palace. Those are supposed to be secure, so she must have had inside help. There weren't any details other than that."

Forsyth was surprised. "The waterways? But nobody has access to those except the Special Forces, and… Oh. Hmm…" He paused, an idea forming. "And my mother?"

Berkens shook his head. "I haven't heard anything."

The prince turned to face the ruined city. "Black butterflies of disaster extinguished the glory of the sun," he recited softly. "And the horizon seems a black book smeared with ink every evening."

The poem came to him now without his expecting it, summoned by the dark shapes that hovered in the sky and brought death.

"I'm sorry—I didn't hear what you said." Berkens apparently hadn't left.

Forsyth sighed, running his left hand absently over the cold stone of the railing. "It's a poem. I read it somewhere, and the imagery was so wonderfully frightening that I memorized it. It's nothing—you may leave, if you like."

"Call me if you need anything."

The door clicked shut, and then there were only city sounds and deep, distant reverberations.

"It leaves from occult censers—a perfume that disturbs memory," the prince whispered. "Black butterflies of disaster extinguished the glory of the sun. The monsters with sticky suckers seek blood to drink, and from the sky, in black dust, descend on our despair."

How did the poet know? How had he foreseen, so long ago, what would happen? The scent of death, the choking dust, the terror, the winged avengers… Perhaps it was foreordained. Now he could only wait until they descended and entered his heart.

"Black butterflies of disaster…"

* * *

17.

It was night, finally, and nothing could be seen from the balcony. He sat alone at his desk, propping up his head with his left hand, right arm lying motionless on the desk. He'd been writing letters: even during a time like this—especially during a time like this—there was work to be done. He wrote to his mother, too; she hadn't replied to his last letter, but perhaps she didn't have access to paper wherever she was being held.

It had been a very long time since he'd seen her.

When he was young, he was allowed to see her on holidays and on other rare occasions at the whim of his father. They'd corresponded; there was a code that they'd developed in order to express the affection that they were embarrassed to include in letters that they knew would be read and heavily edited by the military. When Forsyth was about ten, he'd figured out that the code was simple enough to be understood by the least-talented code breaker: his mother had been humoring him—but he continued to use it.

He might never see her again—the day after tomorrow was supposed to be the end of the world. He wrote quickly, hoping his message could be taken to her the very next day. It had been a long time since he'd told her that he loved her.

After he finished writing, he stared at his face in the mirror, watching the light from the little lamp play over his pale, delicate features. He was almost as beautiful as his mother was, but his mother would have liked a daughter to take after her instead. Tilting his head thoughtfully, he imagined himself as a girl—not much difference. What could his twin sister be like? They were supposed to look similar, but perhaps the resemblance was not as great as it was in his imagination.

He didn't know why he suddenly looked up. Perhaps, unconsciously, he had heard a sound. Starting, he gasped. "Chris?"

How long had he been there? Forsyth was going to have to learn to be more observant if he didn't want to become the target of an assassin. He thought he might be blushing.

Chris was standing in the doorway that led to the balcony, watching him. He hovered on the edge of the lamplight, the darkness surrounding him as irrelevant as the background of a portrait. When the prince spoke, he looked away quickly. "Forgive me for startling you, Prince Forsyth."

"That's all right," said Forsyth happily. Coming to himself, he glanced down, feeling shy.

_You shouldn't be here_, he wanted to say. The penalty for treason was death, and the prince ought, by all accounts, to be summoning the guards. But…

Anyway, Chris mustn't be caught here. Therefore, as much as Forsyth enjoyed the comfort of pleasantries, empty words were a dangerous waste of time. "How is my sister?" he asked abruptly.

He was staring at the desk, but he saw out of the corner of his eye when Chris looked up, surprised. Forsyth had guessed correctly, but that wasn't a surprise. Not many people had access to the waterway system; besides, Baroness Bairach and her supporters had always been suspected of secretly sympathizing with the queen's desire to protect the princess.

"It was your team, wasn't it?" A little nervous about looking at his friend, Forsyth lifted his eyes to his own reflection instead. "The ones they say smuggled the Scrapped Princess out of the castle."

"I can't bring myself to believe that she will destroy the world," said Chris somewhat uncomfortably. It wasn't an answer to the question that had been asked, but to the question that hadn't.

"I see..." said the prince. The words were few, but carefully chosen, and Forsyth knew that they spoke the truth as Chris saw it.

Chris was wrong, though. Preventing widespread suffering was the most important thing at this point, and if Chris chose to support the Scrapped Princess, then he and Forsyth were enemies. By the day after tomorrow, either the Scrapped Princess would be dead—and Peters-Stahl would have had Chris executed—or the world would have ended.

Chris could be wrong.

The realization hit Forsyth like a physical blow to the chest. Was there no one in the world who could be depended upon? For the first time he understood what it meant when people said _nobody's perfect_, and it scared him. If everybody makes mistakes, then… whom should he strive to emulate?

Gathering his courage, he turned his face toward Chris. "So you've come all this way to say goodbye."

Chris lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Take care, Prince Forsyth."

Forsyth looked directly at him and gave him a bittersweet smile. Then he was gone.

The prince's shoulders rose and fell as he breathed, biting his lip sharply to keep himself from crying. He felt oddly happy and sad at the same time. He was glad that Chris had been strong enough to choose his own way of doing things.

If only _he_ could be as strong.

Forsyth lifted his face, looking at his tear-filled eyes in the mirror. He _would_ be as strong. If the world were really ending, then he could do whatever he chose, and there wasn't a thing that Cardinal Hogue, or Peters-Stahl, or his father could do about it.

* * *

18.

There was snow. It was knee-deep, and he was having a hard time pushing his legs through it.

He had been walking for as long as he could remember. His footprints stretched back past the horizon, and before him was nothing but gray and white, swirling aimlessly. It wasn't snowing now; the flakes that leapt into his eyes were thrown there by the same bitter wind that bit his nose and fingertips.

His hands were cold, and he looked down at them. He wasn't wearing mittens, and the skin on his knuckles had cracked and turned white. It itched, and he scratched at it, watching passively as little bits of skin started to flake off.

It was difficult to see at all in the invariable twilight. No matter how long he stood, no matter how far he walked, the light never changed. He stood still when the feeling of pointlessness became overpowering. He walked again when it hurt his feet too much to stand numbly in the snow. He thought he might be lost, but then he realized that he didn't have a goal in mind, anyway.

He was very tired. He knew that he had been wishing for a long time—for at least since he had begun walking, whenever that was—to rest. Only, there was nowhere to rest; there was just snow, and his legs wouldn't bend, so he couldn't sit down where he was. No matter how he tried to make his body do what it was supposed to do, it wouldn't, and he realized that he was dreaming. That made much more sense, anyway; there wasn't supposed to be snow in summer.

After what seemed like weeks and weeks, although it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, considering that this was a dream, he saw a small light very far away. He wanted to hurry toward it, but found that expending more energy just made him more tired and didn't get him there any faster.

When he finally got close enough to see the building properly, he realized that it was an inn. Warm gold glowed out of the frost-covered windows, and the walls stood up straight and strong against the powerful bursts of wind that were driving bits of ice into his cheekbones.

Its wide yard was surrounded by a low wooden fence, barely distinguishable beneath the heavy, white snow that buried it. Mysterious objects stuck up from the ground, creating oddly shaped bumps in the snow. Nothing moved among them; even in the windows, no movement could be seen.

It wasn't until he passed through the gate that he discovered the true nature of those odd shapes.

They were all grave markers.

It wasn't frightening as much as it was peaceful. More than anything, he wanted to go into the inn, into the warmth and the rest and the quiet stillness. Raising his half-frozen fist, he knocked on the door.

After a pause, the door opened. Light poured out into the yard. Someone was there, standing silently. He couldn't see the face, probably because it was a dream, but the person seemed intrinsically familiar.

"May I come in?" he asked politely.

"Why?" The voice belonged to a woman, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he ought to know her.

"It's cold," he said.

He knew somehow that she raised an eyebrow at him. He could see her hair now; it was the same color as his own, and it fell in ringlets over her shoulders.

"Why didn't you wear mittens?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "May I come in?"

"Why do you want to come in?"

He blinked. Dreams were certainly strange.

"This is the only place around here. There's nowhere else to go."

"But why do you think that you're supposed to go somewhere?"

"Because… It's very unpleasant to wander around purposelessly." He paused. "I can pay."

She smiled cynically. "What will you pay me with?"

He looked down at himself and realized that he carried nothing. He didn't feel naked, but he didn't seem to be wearing any clothing, either. There was nothing to give.

"I can work for you, if you like," he said doubtfully.

"What makes you think I need you?" she asked, not exactly unkindly.

Suddenly he realized why she looked so familiar. "Are you my mother?" he asked.

The woman smiled. "No. Guess again."

He stood and looked at her for a moment, feeling the biting bits of ice whip into his back.

"I'm very tired," he said. "I want to rest. Please let me in."

"It isn't nighttime yet," she answered. "Come back when it's night."

"But it's always twilight here! It'll never be night!" he protested, losing his patience. He felt cold tears running over his frozen cheeks.

She smiled mysteriously and pulled the door shut.

"Wait!" he said, thrusting an arm between the door and its frame, hoping desperately that she'd have the heart not to slam the door shut anyway.

She paused. "What do you want?"

"I want to come in. I want to sleep."

"I told you. Come back when it's the proper time for sleeping."

"No!" He threw himself forward, and he was back in his room at the palace; glass shattered around him as he fell through the window. The air was cold and fresh, and he was falling. He flung his limbs about, trying to grab hold of something, but there was nothing except the freezing wind and the rapidly approaching ground.

And then he was sitting up in the darkness, still in the temple, the sheets in a haphazard puddle around his body. From far away, he could hear the rolling, rumbling sounds of destruction. He knew that every sound meant the deaths of tens or maybe even hundreds of his people… people like the old man he'd helped on the road.

He closed his eyes and found that it didn't make a difference: he could still hear.

* * *

19.

The prince's steps echoed through the temple as he walked down the great hall.

Hogue was waiting for him. He greeted Forsyth with a deep bow. "Did you sleep well last night, Prince Forsyth?"

The prince was surprised by the question and stopped a good distance away from the Cardinal. The man was a flatterer, and not one with whom Forsyth particularly wished to be close—even physically. "Yes," he said, shortly but politely. It wasn't the truth, but Forsyth didn't think his sleeping habits were an appropriate subject to discuss with people he did not consider intimate friends.

"That is good," said Cardinal Hogue. "I was worried that the cries of the injured might have kept you awake."

"The injured?" Forsyth gasped. He hadn't thought that there had been any fighting in the immediate area.

Wait… The Cardinal was trying to manipulate him.

Hogue shaped his features into a grim expression. "There has been a steady stream of people who were injured in the calamity at the capital, so we have been using part of the temple as a makeshift hospital."

The prince's heart ached. Just because the Cardinal was a toady didn't mean his words were false.

"If it is not too much trouble," continued Hogue, "perhaps Your Highness might go visit them."

It was a device to gain Forsyth's sympathy and turn him against the Scrapped Princess. Nonetheless, he could not—and did not wish to—refuse to visit the suffering. He set his jaw and assented.

Cardinal Hogue led the way through the temple, grinning smugly. Forsyth did not speak to him: he was trying to memorize the layout of the building, just in case. The Cardinal could not be trusted.

The door was heavy, but Forsyth pushed it open confidently, expecting and getting no help from his companion. It swung open to reveal hundreds of sticky, ugly bodies, massed up on the stone floor in rotting, sweet-smelling heaps. The prince started and recoiled.

The Cardinal spoke from behind him. "They come here because they have no money for medical treatment. Those who have survived this long will heal eventually. However..."

Forsyth finished the statement with trembling lips. "There are a great many who have lost their lives."

He ran his eyes over the crowd, looking for the old man he had met on the road. It was impossible to find anyone in particular, however—the room was packed with messy, ugly, smelly bodies that moved among each other with sticky, sliding motions, like an ocean of skinless serpents with superfluous limbs.

Hogue was speaking in his ear now, saying words that the prince had already spoken to himself in his heart. "As long as the Scrapped Princess remains in this world, there will be more and more who will be injured by God's wrath."

Tears threatened to pour from his eyes, and he was agonizingly aware of the pain written on his brow. His people were lying close to death at his feet.

"Prince Forsyth..." The Cardinal's voice seemed to be farther behind him now. "Please act as an emissary. Act as God's messenger in order to save your people."

Forsyth, still standing in the doorway, turned around to face him. So _that_ was the plan—he would beg the Scrapped Princess for an audience and lure her to an appointed place. There, the military would be waiting to destroy her—and probably him at the same time.

Which would leave Peters-Stahl and Cardinal Hogue to choose one of their puppets for the throne.

The prince gasped as he saw just how deceitful this man truly was. His eyes trembled and glistened with the tears he held back: how _dare_ the Cardinal use these suffering people in his plot?

The prince didn't want to be a pawn, but the only thing that he could do to help his people was to throw in his lot with sycophants and traitors. He lifted his chin, determined now to make the best of it. Just because his plans happened to go along with the Cardinal's didn't mean that he was a puppet—he was strong, too strong to allow little things like personal dislike to get in the way of justice.

"I'll talk to her," he said quietly. "Please send someone to my quarters while I prepare a message to send to her camp. I'll ask to meet with her this evening."

There _was_ something he could do. After all, no matter how the army attacked, it was possible that the Scrapped Princess—especially if she had Chris and the Obstinate Arrows on her side—could escape the long-range weapons. Forsyth wouldn't allow that to happen.


	4. Comforting Presence

PART FOUR: Comforting Presence

20.

Forsyth sat on his horse, under the shadow of the temple. The comforting presence of Berkens was next to him on another horse.

Picking up his reins, the priest asked, "Shall we go?"

Forsyth said nothing, staring between his horse's ears.

"Prince Forsyth? Is something the matter?"

"No," the prince said shortly, not looking at his companion. His sword clanked against his right thigh as he spurred his horse forward.

Berkens easily caught up with him. "You know, we're not in a hurry. There'll be plenty of time."

"I know." Forsyth tried to calm down. "So… you actually spoke with_ her_, right? She promised she'd be there?"

The man nodded. "She wants to meet you, I think."

Forsyth bit his lip as a pang of guilt hit him. It felt like being punched in the stomach.

"What… What exactly did she say?"

"Well, you know, she didn't even know that she had a brother."

"Really?" Forsyth considered this. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn't think as much about him as he did about her, but then he supposed that there was no reason anyone would have told her about him.

"Yeah," said Berkens. "I think the people who adopted her thought she would be safer if she didn't know much about who she really was."

"That makes sense, I guess. Anyway, go on."

"Well, at first she was a little reluctant, and I don't think her older brother thought it was a very good idea. She has a sister, Raquel, who gives very wise advice, and…" Berkens trailed off before interrupting himself. "But it was another kid who convinced her; he sounded like he knew you personally. Brown hair, wore the device of Baroness Bairach?"

"It wouldn't have been," said Forsyth casually, "her son, Christopher?"

"Maybe." Berkens nodded enthusiastically.

What was the least humiliating way to word this? He really didn't want Berkens to think he was ridiculous.

"So… how did he convince her to agree?"

Berkens smiled at the prince. "He said you were a good man."

"Really?" Forsyth blushed from concurrent pride and shame. Chris never gave compliments.

"Yes."

They rode for a while in silence, and Forsyth reflected. He decided that he didn't mind compliments when they were sincere.

"Their camp must be very close," he observed, "since you were able to ride there and back already today."

Berkens shrugged. "Yes. Actually, the temple where they agreed to meet us is farther from us than they are—although in a different direction."

"Cardinal Hogue chose the meeting place," said Forsyth quietly.

"I'm glad," said Berkens immediately. "I was a little worried, thinking that no one knew where we were going; at least the Cardinal will make sure that there's a military guard nearby in case there's an attempt on your life… although I can't imagine that the Casulls would condone something like that."

Forsyth felt horrible about leading such an agreeable man to his death. He almost wanted to tell Berkens that he suspected that the entire setup was a trap… but Berkens would call it off, and he couldn't let that happen.

"So, what is the plan when we get there?" asked Berkens. "What did you want to discuss with her?"

"I just wanted to meet her."

"I see. That's what I told her."

"Um… Who is she bringing with her?"

"I think she'll be accompanied by her brother and Raquel."

"Oh."

That was good. And bad. And good.

* * *

21.

Forsyth stood under the shadow of a dead fountain, Berkens off to his right. The abandoned temple where they stood was much smaller than the one in Grendel, but it had once been beautiful.

It had taken a long time to get to the remote building; they'd had to tether the horses down the mountain and hike for a while. He was out of breath when they arrived, but then they had had to wait for a long time—enough time for him to get bored, then worried, then edgy.

Finally, as the evening drew close, the double doors swung open to reveal a group of people.

Forsyth's heart leapt into his throat as he saw Chris. Beside him was young man in armor whom the prince did not know, although he wore the colors of the Baron Scorpse. Behind them stood a girl with blond curls, and behind _her_ stood three people: a redheaded girl in simple clothing and a boy and a girl with matching cloaks and long, black hair. They were obviously siblings—evidently, the Casulls, her real brother and sister. Based on the way her companions flanked her, the girl in the middle was the Scrapped Princess.

When she stepped forward and the others fell back, he _knew_ that it was she. It wasn't just that she was the one standing in front. It was her eyes, her hair, the shape of her face—she couldn't be anyone except his sister, his mother's daughter. Actually, she looked a lot like the woman who had been in his dream the night before, only younger and less burdened. It was strange that someone who had been so ruthlessly pursued should have such an air of artlessness and animation.

He let his eyes wander over the others in the group, wondering what kind of people they were and wishing that he could have met them before. He looked over at his friend, but Chris did nothing to indicate that they had ever met. Forsyth felt his heart plummet back down into his stomach, but of course, he, too, kept his poise. They had said their goodbyes.

The Scrapped Princess stared at him for a while before quickly glancing back at her brother and sister for confirmation. Then she turned her wide eyes back to Forsyth. After she blinked at him for a few more moments, she began to walk forward, footsteps echoing around the huge, empty room.

It took her a long time to get to him—to Forsyth it seemed like ages—and when she was finally close enough to converse, she stopped and bowed slightly. Her face was a feminine version of the one at which he stared every day in the mirror, but she was a full six inches shorter than he was and not quite as slender.

…She was adorable. He had a wild impulse to gather her up and run away.

"Um... I..." She obviously felt ill at ease.

"You must be Pacifica," he said kindly.

"Uh... Yes," she said, still embarrassed. "Nice to meet you."

She bowed again. "So, um..."

He waited, patient and a little amused.

"Uh..." She was evidently at a loss, and his amusement turned to concern.

Suddenly, she blurted, "What's your favorite food?"

Forsyth was startled by the question.

"I like eggs!" she said bravely. "Er, egg dishes! Especially omelettes!"

He couldn't help but smile. "I love eggs, too."

"I knew it!" she said with a very serious look. "Maybe it's because we're twins, huh?" She laughed a little and then all at once seemed to think that her laughter was inappropriate. "I'm sorry."

She was so cute. How was it possible for someone to be so carefree when she had so many troubles? There must be someone doing the worrying in her place. He looked over at the group by the door; the black-haired siblings were watching her carefully. They were pretty far away, but very alert, so he'd have to make his move quickly.

He glanced at Chris, who returned his gaze expressionlessly. Forsyth bit back a sigh. It had been nice to have someone do _his_ worrying for a while; in that way, he supposed, he and his sister were alike. He bowed his head sadly and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry for all of the hardships that I put you through." He meant it as much for her brother and sister as he did for her.

She waved her hands negatively and said, "No, no! It's not your fault!"

But it _was_ his fault.

"In all the time that you were being hunted down as the Scrapped Princess," he said, opening his eyes finally, "I couldn't do anything to help you."

Pacifica's eyes softened. "Big Brother..."

Forsyth couldn't look at her. That title didn't properly belong to him.

"Don't worry about it," she said blithely. "Some parts of my life were rough, but not everything."

She smiled, looking back at her _real_ siblings. "That's my big brother and sister, along with our friends."

Forsyth cast his eyes across the room. The two with black hair stood, the girl looking kind but firm and the boy (man?) vigilant and naturally distrustful. The Scorpse boy and the gawky-looking girl were complete mysteries to him, and his heart panged, realizing that his persecuted little sister had more friends than he had. Off to one side stood someone who _was_ his friend—or had been, anyway. Chris looked as alert and cold as he always did.

Forsyth felt sick.

"They seem like nice people," he said. He meant it.

"They are." She was still smiling.

He took two steps toward her. She turned back to him, looking up at him with large, surprised eyes.

"I'm sorry..." he said, putting his hands on her upper arms and pulling her into an awkward embrace. "I truly am sorry." Tears began to stream down his face. "I finally met you, but I..."

Bowing slightly, he put his right hand on the hilt of his short sword and pulled it from his sheath. Taking care to aim properly—it was difficult, since he was left-handed—he stabbed it into the middle of her back, where it would pierce the heart. There was a sickeningly crunchy, squirting sound as it went in.

He held her close. She didn't scream or cry out. He'd expected her to make a sound of some kind.

No one reacted, except to stare in horror.

After a moment that seemed far too long, he pulled the sword out with a horrible squelch and lowered her to the floor. He dropped her clumsily at the last moment, and she crumpled.

Without switching hands, he plunged the sword into his own heart.

And suddenly there was an explosion of movement and sound.

Chris darted forward. "Prince Forsyth!"

Before Forsyth could fall on his face—his sword still in his breast, his hand still on the pommel—Chris's arms were around him, catching him and gently bringing him down to the floor.

A girl shrieked—it might have been the sister or that redheaded girl, he couldn't tell—and there was a sudden explosion as guns began firing on the temple. Peters-Stahl… Forsyth had suspected that there was a plan to attack the temple, but having his belief confirmed was sickening. It was disheartening to know that his worth was so little that he could be disposed of so carelessly.

It was clear that he had made the right choice.

The Casulls rushed forward, and the name "Pacifica" echoed as the princess's friends and siblings called to her with varying expressions of horror and confusion. Chris, however, ignored her, kneeling next to Forsyth instead.

The prince could hear his sister gasping for breath. He could smell the blood that saturated her clothing and poured out over the ground. But then, that might have been his own gasping, his own blood... It was so painful, and for a moment, he had a disembodied thought that he ought to pay attention to the details so that he could describe them properly later. It was silly, though, to think that he'd ever have a chance to talk about this—he knew enough about anatomy to make a proper killing stroke. He'd punctured a lung at least and hopefully cut open his heart, too.

There was a woman floating in the air. Her purple hair and wings hovered like a halo around her. "Shannon," she said. "I might be able to do something for her with my phase interference capabilities. It might take a while, though."

Then came a deep male voice from above them. "I won't allow you to interfere."

Forsyth was confused—who were these people? He didn't understand the things they were saying. Where was that low voice coming from? He turned his face against Chris's leg, resting his cheek on the cool silk. Chris looked as though he were just this side of panic.

Another explosion rocked the building, and Raquel spoke a spell shakily. "B-Barrier... Barrier, protect us!"

A glowing blue ball of energy surrounded the group. Stones from the ceiling fell and bounced off it. Forsyth lay sprawled across Chris's lap, sobbing and feeling sickened by the sight of his own blood, staring at the pieces as they fell toward his face and were deflected. Chris, too, looked up—his mouth wide open with horror —at the falling ceiling.

Forsyth hadn't known the girl was a spell caster. No wonder Pacifica had been able to run for so long.

The deep voice spoke again, giving a sinister little laugh. "I didn't expect him to go this far. This is an unexpected bonus."

Forsyth knew instinctively what was meant, and he was furious. Who was this man? Evidently, he was the power behind Cardinal Hogue's clumsy maneuvers, but… What kind of being was he? And how dare he attempt to manipulate Forsyth? Didn't he realize that the prince was responsible, someone who would _always_ choose his people over his own comfort? What did he mean that he "didn't expect" Forsyth to do something? Why should it be surprising that he was capable of independent action?

Forsyth was so indignant, he began to cough and choke on his own blood. Gently, Chris cupped his face with his hands and tilted his head so that the blood spilled out onto the floor. It pooled in Chris's hands, too, leaving sticky puddles that smeared on Forsyth's face when a cough jerked his head. The blood in his hair was hardening into tacky clumps like toffee.

Regaining his composure, Forsyth managed to calm himself, concentrating on shallow, easy breaths. It was too difficult to speak, but he looked up gratefully at his friend.

"Shannon Casull." The low voice boomed through the valley.

Shannon looked up at the sky, jaw hanging open. Forsyth followed his gaze and saw one of the huge, deadly butterflies he had watched from the balcony. It was he who spoke.

"You and the Dragoon will come with me," instructed the angel. "If you refuse, I will burn the capital to the ground right now."

Forsyth started at this. That would defeat the purpose! He opened his mouth and tried to take a deep breath, intending to beg, but Chris smoothed a hand across his cheek, leaving a wet, sticky smear, and made a shushing motion.

Shannon said something to Raquel and then stood. There was a bewildering blurring of the light, as he appeared to merge with the purple-haired girl and ascend into the sky.

It was hard for Forsyth to be surprised by anything when he was in so much pain.

Raquel clutched her little sister, while the Scorpse boy stared idiotically. "How... How could this have happened...?" he asked, kneeling next to Pacifica.

The redheaded girl sobbed alone in a corner, on her knees. Forsyth thought she seemed as though she felt out of place, and he felt a pang of sadness for her. She kept sending furtive glances at Chris, and he wondered if she were the one who had been sending Chris those letters, or if that would be too much of a coincidence. It wasn't likely—probably there were hundreds of girls in love with Chris. He reached up with his right hand and grabbed onto Chris's sleeve, clutching it tightly. If only he would stay, and not go to that girl…

Chris ignored her. "Prince Forsyth..." he said. "Why?"

"Please forgive me..." Forsyth managed to say, tears coming again. It hurt _so much_ to speak. "As their prince, I had to protect my people..."

Berkens was there, kneeling over him and looking concerned. Where had he been for the last few minutes?

Forsyth spoke very softly, gazing up at Chris with eyes that streamed with involuntary tears. "I at least wanted to die with my sister..."

The girls were sobbing and calling for Pacifica; gunfire exploded around them. Raquel began to panic, screaming angrily for help and begging God for forgiveness. It was a lot of noise, and his head was throbbing. He couldn't help but whimper a little at the pain.

Berkens and Chris exchanged looks; the priest shook his head. With an expression of helpless desperation, Chris bent over Forsyth. He took Forsyth's wrist in one hand, curling his fingers around it protectively. With his other arm, he supported the prince's head.

When the pain seemed so great that Forsyth knew he'd never be able to bear it, his tears stopped flowing, and he gave up the impossible struggle to breathe.

* * *

22.

He was at the inn again, standing on the doorstep. The sky was as black as he had ever seen a sky. "It's night…" he said to nobody in particular.

The door opened.

This time he could see the woman clearly. She was radiant and white, with ringlets that bounced as she nodded at him. She stepped back so he could enter.

"Welcome," she said.

The light inside the hallway was very bright—he had to squint a little even to stare at the floor, but he supposed he'd get used to it. It was warm inside, too. Icy water ran down his back and legs as the snow melted off him. He made a move back toward the door when he realized that he was probably dripping puddles of water on the floor, but then he noticed that the water didn't hit the floor at all; it just evaporated as soon as it left his body.

He was wearing clothes this time, he noticed. It was just his blue, everyday uniform, the one he'd been wearing when he'd gone to meet Pacifica. It occurred to him that there should have been a great deal of blood on it, but there wasn't.

"Are you tired?" she asked him, perching on the arm of a wooden bench.

He tilted his head and thought about it.

"No," he answered finally. "Not particularly."

"But it's nighttime," she said. "You should sleep now. Aren't you sleepy?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know why?" she asked.

He shook his head again. "Tell me."

She pointed at his hands. "You have mittens."

He looked down to see that he did indeed have mittens on his hands. He pulled them off, since it was so hot inside.

"This is a very strange place, isn't it?" he asked politely.

She smiled. "I suppose it is. I hope you like it, though," she added soberly. "You might be staying here for a while."

He stared at her blankly. He was beginning to realize where he was.

When he didn't answer, she went on. "I made it especially for you, you know."

"It's charming—just what I would have wanted, but… it seems a bit… lonely," he said cautiously, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

"It is lonely, isn't it?" she agreed. "I haven't had anyone to talk to for thousands of years."

She leaned her chin in one hand. "You and I are always lonely, aren't we? In fact, I think we're very much alike. We both do what we have to do to protect the people we have to protect. Very responsible of us, don't you think?"

"I suppose… If you think so." He wasn't sure what to say. Would it be prideful to agree? Would it be foolish to disagree?

"Really," she said, "it seems to me that people are an awful bother to you. You've been so put upon. Won't you be happier alone?"

"I like people," he said. "Some of them are very nice."

"Mmmm…" she said. "Some of them aren't."

"That's true, but…"

"You met your sister today, didn't you?" she asked. "What did you think of her?"

He was surprised by the sudden change of the conversation. "I thought… I thought… Well…"

"You can tell me what you thought," she said.

"All right…" He took a deep breath. "I thought that she was an awfully sweet and innocent person, and I thought that it wasn't fair that she should have to die to save others. I was… angry about it, I think."

"You saved the world, you know," the woman said with a hint of irony. "If she had died only a few hours later, the system would have been destroyed. As it is, her powers and mine are exactly balanced."

"Oh," he said. "I suppose I should have done it earlier, only…"

"I know. It was a difficult decision."

He lifted his eyes to study her face. "Why did you make it that way? Why make it so unfair?"

"I didn't make it that way."

She smiled at his expression. "My adversaries made it that way," she continued. "They made her and the dragoons and the Casulls and hundreds of others."

"What does it mean?" he asked. "What makes her 'the poison that will destroy the world'?"

"She's made differently. The rules that are inherent in each of you are nowhere to be found in her. She isn't bound by the laws of your world. Her existence threatens the control that the system has on this planet."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"Well," she said, "haven't you ever seen ancient ruins and wondered why you couldn't build anything as high? Haven't you flipped through books and wondered why you couldn't understand the formulas and sketches they contained? Haven't you ever looked at a flower and wondered how it worked?"

"…You _know_ I have."

She nodded. "You're very intelligent, but you couldn't _see_. That's not natural; it's because I stopped you. There's a limit on all understanding beyond a certain amount."

"Why?" He was mystified.

"It's difficult to answer. But… there are things outside your world that are dangerous. If you could access them, you'd eventually harm yourselves."

"I suppose that makes sense," he said, but his heart ached to think of all the knowledge that was as good as lost.

"So you understand why I did what I did?" she asked. "You think it was the right decision?"

He twisted his mouth up, thinking. "Maybe," he said. "You decided that one person had to suffer so that everyone else would be safe. That seems… unfair, but… the right choice. I think." He looked at her questioningly. "Right?"

"I'm asking you." She smiled.

He nodded decisively. "When it's impossible to do the right thing, you have to choose whatever is _least_ wrong."

"But there's something that's still bothering you."

"Well…" he shifted his weight uncomfortably. "If it was all to save people, then why… I mean… Did… did all of those people have to die?"

Her eyes softened. "No," she said. "No, they didn't _have_ to die. That was a choice I made."

He looked at her, blinking hard to keep himself from crying.

She looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure it was the right thing to do."

"What?" He was confused. "But you're…"

"Perfect?" she finished. "Hardly. I've made mistakes, you know. And… I think… that this was a mistake. People should be free to decide for themselves, don't you think?"

"Um…" He supposed he had a very stupid look on his face, since she started laughing.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated for a moment. "There," she said. "That's all done, then. I've fixed everything."

She looked content.

"You should see what's happening on Earth right now. The changes in the sky are beautiful. And the people… They don't know what to do with themselves. What do you think they'll do now?" she mused.

"I… I don't…"

"They'll do whatever they want, I suppose." The corner of her mouth twitched as if she were holding back a laugh.

"And… will they want to do good things?"

"I don't know," she said. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it?"

She quirked her head at him. "How many of your choices do you think are bad ones?"

"Bad? Do you mean, immoral? Well… I wish I could say none of them, but… I do the wrong thing sometimes. But, I really _try_ not to do wrong!" His eyes widened in passionate sincerity.

"Answer a question for me, Forsyth," she said. "If I do something, must you then also do it?"

"No…?"

"Please answer with your own opinion."

"Well, then… no. Because there's nothing that I _must_ do."

She nodded, satisfied. "Do you think that you would be a just ruler?"

"Um…" In stories, this was always a trick question.

"Be honest."

"I… I hope so," he said.

"And do you like the world very much?"

"…Yeah. It's beautiful." His face lit up. "Thank you—you must be very creative."

"Oh… I didn't make it. Someone else did."

"What? Who?"

She smiled. "Now you'll be able to find out for yourself, won't you?"

He was bewildered. Maybe she wasn't who he thought she was, after all. This was all very confusing.

"You know," she added, "there are other continents. There are completely new languages for you to transcribe. There are magnificent plants and wonderful animals and baffling architecture. You could go find all of them, if you wanted."

"I'd like that," he said warily.

She smiled. "I know you would. You were made that way."

He blushed a little at what he figured was a compliment. "I'm not… I mean…"

"I understand." She blinked at him for a moment. "Still not sleepy?"

"No." He shook his head. "Very energetic."

"It's not surprising. You weren't supposed to come here so early—you're needed at home. You're indispensable now because, well… There will be no more prophecy."

She tilted her head to one side and all of her ringlets bounced. "I'll send you back."

"I…" He stopped. This was not something he ought to protest. "Thank you. And… thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

"It's all right. You're special. You were made for this moment." She smiled cheerfully. "You have something of your sister in you."

He was blushing in earnest. "My sister?"

"Yes," she said. "She's _very_ special. I've been waiting for her for a long time. Please thank her for me."

"Thank her?"

"Yes. She helped me come to a decision I've been pondering for a long time now."

Forsyth thought he might understand. "Do you mean about whether or not to protect the world?"

She smiled enigmatically. "Remember to put your mittens back on."

"Oh," he said. "Right." He pulled them back on, wondering why they mattered. "Um, excuse me… Do you know how I got these?"

She looked at him, amused. "You made them. Don't you remember?"

* * *

23.

The first thing he noticed was that the eternal light that had flickered in the temple for so long had blinked out. Chris and Berkens were kneeling over him. Either they had been very still, or very little time had passed.

The blood was gone. It was just _gone_, inexplicably. There was no stickiness on his skin and there were no red streaks on Chris's hands and face and knees.

There was a rock or a piece of glass or something poking into the back of his knee, which was annoying. Had that been there the whole time? Why hadn't he noticed before? It was to be expected, he supposed, that he wouldn't notice something small when he was in such great pain.

"Look!" Berkens said to Chris. "His wound!"

Forsyth tried to speak. "I..."

The look in Chris's eyes was indescribable—breathless, maybe, although it didn't make much sense for eyes to be breathless. It might have been, Forsyth decided, the first truly happy expression he had ever seen on Chris's face.

"Come..." Chris said quietly. "Please stand up, Prince Forsyth."

Forsyth put his hand on his chest where his wound had been, blinking in mild confusion as he realized that there wasn't even a tear in his uniform where he had plunged the sword through. He reached for the offered hand and stood clumsily. Before he realized what was happening, he had been scooped up off his feet. He twisted his head around to see Berkens grinning at him.

"You can put me down," said the prince. He hadn't realized that Berkens was so strong—Forsyth was slender, but he was tall, and hardly insubstantial.

"Don't," Chris commanded. "Take him to the carriage."

"We came on horseback," said Berkens.

Chris glanced up at the unsound ceiling. "Well, take him outside then, and go and fetch a coach."

"I'm fine, really," said Forsyth.

Chris and Berkens looked at him as if he were an idiot.

"You were _dead_," said Chris.

"I said I'm okay," said Forsyth, as firmly as he dared. "Nothing hurts. I promise."

Chris gave him a piercing look, then nodded to Berkens, who dutifully put the prince back on his feet.

"Thank you," said Forsyth.

For a minute, none of the three said anything. It was quite awkward. Really, thought Forsyth, what does one say after one has been dead?

He suddenly remembered that there were other people in the room, and jerked his head around to look. Raquel and Shannon were embracing a very alive Pacifica and weeping. The Scorpse boy watched them with an expression of wonder and relief. The other girl looked eager to do something, but unsure what exactly to do. He should make an apology to all of them.

Finally, Chris pointed to the door and said, "Outside. The roof's not stable."

"I'll go for a coach," said Berkens. With a fond glance at the Casulls, he ran quickly toward the place they'd tied the horses.

* * *

24.

"And here I return, like a line to the center, like a fire to the sun and like a stream to the sea," he sang. "And even if no light appears to me, ah! I know well that my sun is here within."

Forsyth sat, tucked carefully into the corner of the coach. It was definitely not cold enough to warrant four quilts, but Chris had spent so much energy trying to get hold of them that Forsyth thought it best just to use them all. This piece was too high for him now—it was getting harder to hit high notes, which he supposed he should have expected, but… It was so pretty. It could be transposed. Monteverdi was too beautiful to throw away because of a little issue like vocal range.

Continuing the song under his breath, he leaned his head against the back of the seat and started to make a mental list of all he'd need to do. He'd already apologized to the Casulls—a million times, at least—but one more time wouldn't hurt. He should write them a letter.

He'd invited Pacifica to stay with him in the capital, but she'd politely refused. It felt wrong to let her go—he owed her all the hospitality that ought to have been hers for years—but he didn't press her. She was friendly to him, of course, but she seemed eager to spend time with people she actually knew. He'd invite her to visit once things were more settled.

For now, it was imperative that he return to the capital as soon as possible. Somebody would have to oversee the reconstruction process, not to mention organize relief programs. There'd have to be peace talks with Giat.

He groaned. It was hard to believe the mess his father had made. It was going to take him so long to get everything turned right again—and he'd never get it done alone, so he'd have to appoint ministers. Most of his father's advisors were completely unsuitable and almost certainly untrustworthy. Probably, it would be a few weeks before a proper coronation ceremony could be arranged, so that gave him a while to find the appropriate figures.

No, rallying support was something that shouldn't be delayed. If he didn't move quickly, Cardinal Hogue or General Peters-Stahl might make a bid for power. Well, he figured, he'd at least have Baroness Bairach as an ally, and his mother would have good advice as to whom he should appoint to various positions.

And there'd be Chris, of course. He smiled rather idiotically to himself and snuggled his cheek into the blankets.

"Are you ready to go?" asked Chris, opening the door and poking his head inside.

Forsyth had been ready to go for ages. "Yes," he said pleasantly.

"Okay." Chris's tone was clipped and decisive. "Berkens is going with the Casulls to their camp. They'll inform my team of what has happened."

"Did you by any chance think to ask him—"

"Yes. He'll get your things from the Temple." Chris had amazing forethought.

"Oh. Thank you."

Chris nodded perfunctorily. "I'm going with you to Sauer. Is there anything else that needs to be done before we leave?"

Forsyth shook his head. "Not that I know of," he said. "Unless… There was some heavy gunfire up the mountain. Don't you need to check on your team?"

"Signal flags said there were no significant injuries, but Berkens will check on that, too. You need somebody to help see to things at the capital. Unless there's someone else you'd prefer to come along?"

Forsyth shook his head. "No. But let's send a message to the Baroness as soon as we can."

"Already done."

"Then there's nothing more to do here, I think."

Chris had one foot in the coach when the redheaded girl came into sight. "Christopher!" she called. "Wait!"

She looked self-conscious. Forsyth felt very sorry for her. Upon closer examination, he could see that she wasn't nearly as poised as Pacifica or Raquel, nor was she half so pretty. No wonder the poor thing felt nervous.

Chris turned to face her, surprised. "What is it?" he asked.

"Well…" she said, "I… That is, you didn't… Leo and I have to go back through Sauer, and I was wondering if… if you're in the city, I mean… if you wanted to…" She faltered.

"Won't you be staying with the Casulls?" asked Forsyth kindly.

"N-no…" she said. "That's just the thing. They haven't invited me, and…"

Forsyth nodded with understanding. "I'll see that suitable lodgings in the city are arranged for you and… Leo? Is he the one with the Scorpse crest?"

"Yes," said Chris. "He's the baron's son."

"Yes, that's right," said Forsyth. "Baron Scorpse doesn't keep a house in Sauer." To the girl, he said, "I'll have things prepared by tomorrow."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Your Highness…"

"Please let me. You're a friend of my sister."

"…All right." She curtsied in a countrified manner. It was too adorable.

"And," added Forsyth grandly, "as soon as I can spare him, I'll send Chris 'round with an invitation for you. We shall take tea together, and you must tell me about my sister. But I hope you'll excuse me at this _particular_ moment—I must get to the capital as soon as possible."

She beamed. "Thank you, Your Highness. Goodbye, Chris."

Chris nodded to acknowledge that he'd heard her, and she trotted off toward the Casulls.

Making a sign to the coachman, Chris swung himself inside and threw himself on the seat opposite the prince. "Am I to be your errand boy?"

"Hardly. But she wants to see you."

Chris blinked at him. "What?"

Forsyth shook his head. "What's her name?"

"Winia."

"Oh, the letter girl?"

"The same."

The carriage jerked into motion, throwing Forsyth forward. He grinned. "She _adores_ you," he drawled, teasing a little.

"Which is your fault, by the way," said Chris wryly. Shrugging, he added, "She'll get over it."

"I thought I told you to be nice to her."

"I didn't know it was a command."

Forsyth laughed. "It wasn't."

"I _am_ nice to her," said Chris. "I treat her the same way I treat everybody else."

"So… you're cold, and sarcastic."

Chris folded his arms across his chest and scowled, obviously trying to hide a grin.

"Anyway, it would be kind of you to at least be friendly with her," Forsyth teased. "You must have done something to encourage her, or she wouldn't be so persistent in the face of _such indifference_."

Chris rolled his eyes. "It was entirely _your letter_ that…! Fine. If you want me to, I'll be extra nice."

"Thank you. It would really make her happy."

Chris made a sound to acknowledge Forsyth's statement without having to agree or disagree. Changing the subject, he asked, "Is this your book?"

He held up an ancient-looking codex. "It was under my seat."

"What?" Forsyth perked up, interested. "No. Why? What is it?"

"Fyodor Dostoevsky," Chris slowly sounded out the arcane symbols. "What's a Dos… What's that?"

"It's the author, I think," said Forsyth. "It doesn't sound like an English word. Oh, there's the title." He pointed. "_The Idiot_."

Chris opened the front cover and looked inside. "Who's Celia?"

"Celia? I have no idea."

"Her name's inside the cover."

"Let me see."

Chris handed him the book. Smoothing over the crumbling pages carefully, Forsyth examined the text. "It's a novel!" he said happily. "These are really rare, but they're the best kind of writing. I wonder why nobody writes them anymore. I think I shall commission some."

He ran his fingers over the rough surface of the paper. "I love the smell of old books. They smell of glue and dust and primordial wisdom and esoteric creeds."

"Oh," said Chris pointedly.

Forsyth obediently returned to sensibleness. "This is really difficult English. I've never… I mean… Who else can read this?"

"You. And Princess Senes."

"Maybe this Celia taught herself, somehow. Because there's nobody who teaches it—believe me, I searched for ages for a teacher, with no luck. But… if she did, she must have had access to an extensive library. Could she be a courtier?"

"Possibly," said Chris thoughtfully. "That would also explain how one of her books got into a royal coach. But I don't know of any courtiers named Celia."

"You know the names of all the courtiers?"

"Most of them."

"You are so… When do you have the time to do that?"

"While you're reading."

"Oh," said Forsyth. He paused. "I suppose I'll find out who she is and give it back to her."

"After you've finished it?"

Forsyth made a face at him, but he couldn't be angry. Maybe he didn't mind a bit of ridicule when it was underlaid with fondness and genuine esteem.

He _was_ dying to find out what the book was about, but it was too bouncy to read in the coach, and the words were obscure enough that Forsyth figured he'd need to refer to other texts for translation help, so he watched the scenery instead. He loved his country so much—it was a very beautiful world, after all. He was grateful to be given the chance to clean it up a little.

"Why did you do it?" Chris's voice interrupted his musing.

Forsyth cocked his head to one side. "You mean, with Pacifica? I told you, it was because—"

"No. Why did you try to kill yourself?"

That was harder to explain. He looked at Chris for a minute without saying anything.

"Were you unhappy? Did someone threaten you?" Chris sounded irritated. "Who did you think was going to run this country when you were dead?"

"I…" Forsyth wasn't sure what to say. "I… Well… it didn't seem right, to just take a life without paying for it somehow."

"That's stupid," said Chris bluntly.

Forsyth blinked, unused to such harsh words. Should he be offended?

"I… I'm sorry," he began uncertainly. "I…"

Chris frowned, chewing the corner of his mouth. He turned to stare out of the window. "I would have missed you," he said.

Forsyth colored. "I would have missed you, too," he said softly.

Evidently glad to have _that_ out of the way, Chris nodded in a businesslike manner. "What are you going to do when we get to Sauer?"

"I'll see my mother directly," said Forsyth determinedly.

Chris's face suddenly went vacant. His eyes flickered apprehensively. "Prince Forsyth…"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry. Her Majesty was killed in prison." He leaned forward and put an awkward hand on the prince's shoulder, clearly trying to be comforting. And it _was_ comforting, at least to Forsyth; Chris was so sparing with affection that any touch from him was significant.

"Oh," said the prince.

Killed in prison meant… she had been tortured.

Chris looked worried. "Prince Forsyth, please let me know if—"

"I'm all right." The prince smiled amiably. "I promise."

"But I should tell you that—"

"I'll… take care of it when we get to Sauer."

There was going to be a _major_ reorganization of the military.

Chris moved to sit next to him. "Prince Forsyth…"

"Please... You don't have to use my title," said Forsyth shyly. He was becoming inexplicably nervous. They were _awfully_ close to one another.

"Forsyth," Chris began again, looking a little uncomfortable with the familiar form of address, "you should know that we speculate that there is a plot to cover up your mother's death as a sudden illness."

The prince closed his eyes for a moment. "Of course there is. Well… I'll be prepared to order an investigation. Where is she buried?"

"We don't know. But," Chris hastened to add, "I'll find out for you. As soon as possible."

"Thank you," mumbled Forsyth. He blushed, then blurted out, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd be summarily abused," said Chris.

"Probably," agreed Forsyth. "But I'm trying, you know, to be more… assertive, I guess."

Chris looked amused. "Then you'll have to stop putting so many qualifiers in your statements."

"You're right. Sorry."

"And you'll have to stop being so nice to everyone."

Forsyth shook his head vehemently. "Nope. I can be decisive and independent _and_ gentle and kind."

"Can you?" There was a strange tone in Chris's voice, almost as if he were trying to believe Forsyth but couldn't quite.

"Yes," the prince answered firmly. "I can."


End file.
